(HARVARD  PLAYS 

9  60     The  47  Workshop 

F745-I 


PRoDVCEfU      AVTHoa 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    3ME 


Series 


Laemmle  Donation 


HARVARD  PLAYS 


EDITED    BY 

GEORGE    P.   BAKER 

PROFESSOR    OF    DRAMATIC     LITERATURE,    HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 


THE  HARVARD  PLAYS 

A  Collection  of  One  Act  Plays 

SELECTED    AND    EDITED    BY 

PROF.  GEORGE  P.  BAKER 
Vol.  I.     Plays  of  the  47  Workshops,  1st  Series 

THREE  PILLS  IN  A  BOTTLE,  by  Rachel  L.  Field. 

A  fantasy,  including  a  dance,  for  4  men,  8  women,  1  child;   35 

THE^GOOD    MEN   DO,    by    Hubert    Osborne. 

A   drama   on   Shakespeare's     death,    costume,   for    3    men,   3 

women;    30  minutes. 
TWO   CROOKS   AND   A    LADY,    by    Eugene    Pillot. 

An  exciting  crook  play,  for  3  men,  3  women;    20  minutes. 
FREE   SPEECH,    by    Wm.    Prosser. 

An  amusing  satire,  for  7  men;    20  minutes. 

Vol.  II.     Plays  of  the  Harvard  Dramatic  Club, 
1st  Series 

THE   FLORIST    SHOP,    by     Winifred    Hawkridge. 

•  A  comedy,  for  3  men,  2  wo  men;    45  minutes. 
THE   BANK  ACCOUNT,    by    Howard    Brock. 

A  drama  of  modern  life,  for   1  man,  2  women;    25  minutes. 
THE   RESCUE,    by    Rita    C.    Smith. 

A  drama  of  New  England  life,  for  3  women:   40  minutes. 
AMERICA   PASSES   B5f,     by    Kenneth    Andrews. 

A  pathetic  comedy,  for  2  men,  2  women;  30  minutes. 

Vol.  HI.     Plays  of  the  Harvard  Club,  2nd  Series 

GARAFELIA'S   HUSBAND,     by    Esther    \V.    Bates. 

A  drama  of  New  England  life,  for  4  men,  1  woman;  30  minutes. 
THE   FOUR-FLUSHERS,    by     Cleves    Kinkead. 

A  satirical  farce,  for  3  men,  2  women;   30  minutes. 
THE   HARBOR   OF   LOST    SHIPS,    by    Louise    W.    Bray. 

A  tragedy  of  Fisherfolk,  for  2  men,  1  woman,  1  boy;  25  minutes. 
SCALES   AND   THE   SWORD,    by    Farnham    Bishop. 

An  exciting  drama  of  social   justice,  for    6  men,   1    woman,  1   boy, 

refugees  and  militiamen;    25  minutes. 

Vol.  IV.     Plays  of  the  47  Workshop,  2nd  Series 

THE   PLAYROOM,    by    Doris    Halman. 

A    touching    fantasy,  for    2  men,  2    women,    2    children;    30 

minutes. 
THE   FLITCH    OF    BACON,    by    Eleanor    Hinkley. 

A  lively  comedy,  costume,  for  5  men,  one  woman;  20  minutes. 
COOKS   AND    CARDINALS,    by    Norman    C.    Lindau. 

A  farce-comedy,  for  3  men,  2  women;    25  minutes. 
TORCHES,    by    Kenneth    Raisbeck. 

A  tragedy,  costume,  for  2  men.  2  women;    1  hour. 

PUBLISHED   BY   BRENTANO'S,    NEW  YORK 


PLAYS  OF  THE 

47  WORKSHOP 


THIRD   SERIES 


THE   CROWSXEST 

By  WM.  F.  MAXLEY 

THE  HARD  HEART 

By  M.  A.  KISTER,  JR. 

MIS'   MERCY 

By  LOUISE  WHITEFIELD  BRAY 

THE   OTHER   OXE 

By  ARTHUR-  KETCHUM 


NEW  YORK 
BREXTAXO'S 


Copyright,  1922 
BY  BRENTANO'S 


^Ufx. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringements  of  the  dramatist's  rights,  as  follows: 

"Sec.  4966:  —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall 
be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be 
assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to 
the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance 
and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons 
shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im 
prisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


570728 


PREFACE 

THE  four  plavs  in  this  volume  are  all  genuine 
products  of  the  4-7  Workshop,  that  is,  written  by 
men  or  women  who  have  been  members  of  the 
courses  in  playwriting.  Produced  at  regular  per 
formances  before  47  Workshop  audiences,  they 
have  been  corrected  in  accordance  with  their 
criticisms.  At  first  sight,  The  Crozcsnest  and  The 
Other  One  may  seem  difficult  to  produce;  but 
nothing  is  asked  for  in  the  way  of  setting  and 
lighting  these  plays  which  has  not  been  found 
possible  with  the  very  limiting  conditions  at 
Agassiz  House,  Radcliffe  College,  where  the 
Workshop  plays  are  given.  The  stage  on  which 
they  were  originally  given  is  only  twelvt  feet  deep 
by  twenty  feet  wide.  Even  this  twenty  nar 
rows  steadily  towards  the  back  to  fourteen  feet. 
On  this  stage  it  is  quite  impossible  to  raise  the 
scenery  out  of  sight  above  the  proscenium  arch ; 
and  the  lighting  board  is  very  simple.  Given  a 
dimmer,  all  the  desired  effects  in  The  Crowsnest 
or  The  Other  One  may  easily  be  gained  on  a  stage 
quite  inadequate  as  compared  with  the  profes 
sional  stage. 

The  plays  included  were  chosen  from  a  large 
number  because  they  were  specially  liked  by  the 

[  vii  ] 


PREFACE 

audiences  before  which  they  have  been  given. 
Heretofore,  the  volumes  of  one-act  plays  issued 
have,  in  the  main,  aimed  at  requiring  very  simple 
settings.  It  is  hoped  that  this  volume  will  meet 
the  need  of  two  kinds  of  organizations:  those 
which  depend  chiefly  on  the  acting  for  the  results 
gained ;  and  also  those  which  are  quite  as  in 
terested  in  lighting  and  scenery.  Of  course,  Mis' 
Mercy  and  The  Hard  Heart  are  more  difficult 
than  either  of  the  others,  for,  depending  little  on 
lighting  or  setting,  they  must  stand  or  fall  on  the 
acting  given  them.  The  Hard  Heart  has  been 
printed  because  it  thoroughly  justified  the  belief 
of  those  who  chose  it  for  production  that  in  spite 
of  its  unusual  method  of  exposition,  it  would  be 
clear  and  would  convey  to  an  audience  exactly 
the  emotions  intended. 

It  may  seem  wise,  perhaps,  to  repeat  here  a 
statement  made  in  the  second  series  of  47  Work 
shop  plays  as  to  the  attitude  of  the  47  Workshop 
and  its  authors  toward  performances  of  its  plays : 

"  The  growing  number  of  presentations  of  such 
plays  in  settlement  houses,  schools  and  colleges, 
and  experimental  theatres  is  very  encouraging, 
but  a  word  must  be  said  in  protection  of  the 
authors.  The  chief  reason  why  there  has  been  in 
this  country  a  larger  number  of  really  good  one- 
act  plays  in  the  last  few  years  is  this :  they  could 
be  written  with  some  justifiable  anticipation  that 
they  would  be  played  repeatedly  and  bring  in  a 
small  royalty  each  time.  Few  people,  least  of  all 
young  dramatists,  can  afford  to  write  even  one-act 

t  viii  ] 


PREFACE 

plays  for  free  performances  by  anyone  who  cares 
to  use  them.  There  is,  however,  a  curious  feeling 
in  many  minds  that  because  the  one-act  play  is 
short,  it  cannot  have  cost  much  labor,  and  that 
its  author  should  be  glad  to  have  it  given  as  may 
be  desired  without  recompense.  Though  the  47 
Workshop  is  always  ready  to  consider  special 
reasons  why  the  usual  small  royalties  required  for 
presentation  of  the  plays  printed  for  it  and  The 
Harvard  Dramatic  Club  should  be  remitted,  it  has 
found  it  necessary  in  almost  every  instance  to 
insist  on  the  regular  fee.  Only  in  that  way  can  it 
insure  a  succession  of  other  short  plays  likely  to 
be  as  satisfactory  to  its  public  as  the  plays 
already  published.  This  statement  may,  perhaps, 
save  misunderstanding  and  disappointment  in  the 
future." 

The  47  Workshop  is  much  interested  in  the 
performances  of  its  one-act  plays  given  increas 
ingly  throughout  the  country.  It  welcomes  in 
quiries  as  to  details  of  the  original  productions, 
and  also  comments  as  to  the  merits  and  demerits 
of  the  plays.  Indeed,  it  would  welcome  any  sug 
gestions  from  people  using  its  plays  as  to  the  kinds 
which  they  need.  It  cannot  promise  to  make 
an  effort  to  have'  the  desired  pieces  written,  but  it 
will  make  up  any  future  volumes  with  such  sug 
gestions  in  mind. 

GEORGE  P.  BAKER. 


THE   CROWSNEST 

BY 

WILLIAM  F.  MAXLEY 


THE   CROWSXEST 

The  setting  for  The  Crowsntst,  though  seemingly  com 
plicated,  was  really  cheap  and  easy  to  construct. 

Two  effects  are  of  special  importance  for  this  play; 
first,  an  illusion  of  space  not  only  in  an  expanse  of  night 
sky,  but  in  the  height  of  the  crowsnest  from  the  deck  of  the 
old  hooker;  second,  a  feeling  of  mystery  to  conform  to 
the  mood  of  the  play.  As  the  47  Workshop  stage  is  very 
small  —  the  proscenium  opening  being  a  scant  twenty  by 
eleven  feet  —  it  was  necessary  to  gain  these  effects  under 
difficulties. 

The  units  indispensable  for  action  are:  a  crowsnest  large 
enough  to  hold  three  people;  the  mast  of  a  ship;  two  rope 
ladders;  a  spar  of  sufficient  strength  to  bear  the  weight  of 
the  Kid;  a  ship's  lantern;  and  a  sky  backing  or  cyclorama 
of  some  sort.  For  the  mast,  two  ordinary  wood  columns, 
obtained  from  a  planing  mill,  eight  feet  long  and  nine  inches 
in  diameter,  were  used.  "SVhen  these  were  bolted  together 
side  by  side,  they  made  a  very  substantial  lower  section  of 
the  mast.  As  all  the  strain  and  action  of  the  play  was  on 
and  below  the  spar,  which  was  placed  on  top  of  this  eight- 
foot  section,  the  remainder  of  the  mast  was  a  framework 
of  light  wood,  tapering  toward  the  top,  over  which  canvas 
was  stretched.  This  section  was  notched  half  way  through 
at  the  bottom  and  upward  for  a  distance  of  eighteen  inches 
so  that  it  would  fit  on  the  lower  section  of  the  mast  and 
give  the  impression  of  the  two  sections  spliced  together. 
Two  light  iron  bands  held  the  sections  in  place.  The  spar 
was  made  from  a  ten-foot,  four-by-six-inch  piece  of  ash, 
rounded  and  tapered  to  the  ends/  At  the  center  it  was 
bolted  to  the  top  of  the  lower  section  of  the  mast.  Ropes 
attached  to  either  end  of  the  spar  and  guyed  to  rings  at 
the  base  of  the  mast  warranted  its  not  tipping  when  the 
Kid's  weight  was  thrown  on  one  end.  A  two-foot  iron 
railing  of  three-quarter-inch  pipe  extended  around  three 
sides  of  the  crowsnest  —  the  back  unprotected  —  to  the 


TKE   CROWSNEST 

rope  ladder  which,  stretched  taut,  reached  on  the  left  from 
the  intersection  of  the  spar  with  the  mast  to  the  three-foot 
platform  at  the  base  of  the  mast  to  which  it  was  bolted. 
Although  the  crowsnest  was  but  three  feet  off  the  floor,  an 
effect  of  great  height  was  gained  in  two  ways:  first,  by 
setting  the  mast  almost  against  the  proscenium  arch  so 
that  the  crowsnest  seemed  to  overhang  the  audience; 
second,  by  introducing,  a  foot  beneath  the  crowsnest, 
another  spar,  seventeen  feet  long,  to  which  a  sail  was 
reefed,  very  tight  at  the  ends  but  bulging  out  in  folds 
to  the  stage  floor  near  the  center.  Behind  the  sail  the  char 
acters  lay  concealed  until  time  for  their  entrance.  Then 
by  grasping  the  lower  rungs  of  the  rope  ladder  and  slowly 
dragging  themselves  up  a  rung  at  a  time,  with  their  entire 
momentum  coming  from  the  pull  on  their  arms,  the  effect 
was  the  same  as  if  they  had  climbed  up  through  a  trap 
door  in  the  stage.  A  second  and  narrower  rope  ladder, 
five  feet  to  the  right  of  the  mast  and  six  feet  up  stage,  ex 
tended  from  the  floor,  at  a  slight  angle  with  the  mast,  out 
of  sight  into  the  flies.  This  was  used  by  the  Kid  in  getting 
to  the  spar.  The  few  guy  ropes  used  to  help  steady  the 
m'ast  and  crowsnest  against  the  strain  became,  by  equip 
ping  part  of  them  with  fake  pulleys,  part  of  the  rigging  of 
the  ship.  The  mast  and  spars  were  painted  in  blues  and 
weather-beaten  grays,  little  of  which  could  be  discerned 
except  around  the  lantern.  The  sail  was  of  dark  smudged 
cloth,  very  old  and  tattered. 

For  a  background  a  cyclorama  was  used  that  reached  in 
a  prolonged  curve  from  one  edge  of  the  proscenium  arch 
to  the  other,  extending  not  more  than  twelve  feet  beyond 
the  arch  at  the  deepest  point.  This  was  lighted  dimly  in 
deep  midnight  blue  and  gave  the  illusion  of  limitless  space. 
A  box  light  on  the  floor  behind  the  mast  and  directed  up 
ward  -produced  this  effect.  This  arrangement  prevented 
any  light  from  striking  the  floor  or  'any  shadows  from  the 
rigging  on  the  sky.  As  all  light  was  directed  on  the  sky, 
the  entire  outline  of  mast,  spars,  and  crowsnest  was  in 
silhouette  except  where  a  ship's  lantern  against  the  mast 
threw  a  dull  glow  over  the  crowsnest.  A  small  'amber  spot 
light,  concealed  overhead  and  directed  downward,  served  to 
light  the  characters,  faces  and  seemingly  came  from  a 
natural  source,  —  the  lantern. 

When  Peturson  put  out  the  lantern,  the  spotlight  also 
went  out  and  the  following  scene  between  him  and  the  Kid 
was  strikingly  played  in  silhouette  against  the  sky.  The 

[  2  ] 


THE    CROWSXEST 

winking  of  the  signal  light  in  the  distance  was  obtained 
with  a  pocket  flashlight,  pressed  against  the  cyclorama 
from  behind  so  that  it  showed  through  faintly,  as  from  a 
distance.  Later,  when  Jo-Jo  was  thrown  into  the  sea,  all 
the  lights  went  off  just  as  he  was  about  to  go  over  the  rail. 
His  cry,  the  splash,  and  the  "  Ah "  from  the  deck  below, 
came  out  of  total  darkness.  This  not  only  simplified  mat 
ters  greatly,  but  strongly  appealed  to  the  imagination  of 
the  audience.  For  the  effect  of  dawn,  the  first  border  was 
brought  on  so  slowly  and  kept  so  dim  that  the  scene  ap 
peared  to  be  in  a  thick  misty  fog. 

ROLLA  L.  WAYXE. 

Designer  of  the  Setting   Used 

by  The  4?'  Workshop. 


CHARACTERS 

THE  GREENHORN  KID 
Jo-Jo,  COCKNEY  A.  B. 
MR.  PETURSON,  THE  MATE 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Wm.  Manley.  Permission  for 
amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must 
first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College, 
Cambridge,  Mass.  Moving  Pictures  rfghts  reserved. 


THE    CROWSXEST 

SCENE:  The  old  hooker  Jessamine,  beating  her 
way  down  the  South  American  coast.  Only  the 
mast  shows  against  the  background  of  ski/  and 
sea.  Stars  gleam  beyond  the  masthead,  deep 
glowing  and  warm.  Against  the  sky  the  crows- 
nest  shows  boldly.  It  is  inclosed  by  dark  canvas. 
torn  and  weather-beaten.  From  it  a  ladder  of 
rope  leads  to  the  deck.  Just  above  the  mast  there 
is  a  spar,  and  from  its  end  another  ladder  leads 
down  to  the  deck.  Stage  in  semi-darkness. 

CURTAIN:  Discovered,  two  men  in  the  crows- 
nest.  Two  bells  sound  as  the  curtain  rises. 

Jo- Jo  [shaking  his  companion  who  leans 
against  the  mast]  Hi!  Wike  up.  This  ain't  a 
bloomin'  bunk. 

KID  [in  a  surly  voice]  I'm  not  asleep. 

Jo-Jo.     Then  'old  yer  'ead  up. 

[A  moment's  silence  and  the  Kid  yawns.~\ 

KID.     Ain't  it  almost  time  to  go  below? 

Jo-Jo.  If  yer'd  keep  yer  silly  ears  open  yer'd 
know  what  time  it  was!  [He  scratches  a  match 
and  lights  his  pipe.  His  plug  falls  to  the  floor 
of  the  nest  and  he  takes  down  the  lantern  that 
hangs  on  the  mast  to  recover  it]  Yer'll  never 

[   3   ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

learn  ter  be  a  sailor  if  yer  don't  keep  yer  ears 
open. 

KID  [rebelliously]  I  don't  want  to  be  a  sailor. 

Jo- Jo.  Tired  of  it  already,  are  yer?  An'  on 
yer  first  cruise !  Well  —  so  was  I,  twenty  years 
ago:  I'm  still  'ere. 

KID.     Don't  you  e^er  get  sick  of  it? 

Jo- Jo  [mimicking  him]  Aye,  I  gets  sick  of  it. 
[in  his  natural  voice']  Specially  when  they  sticks 
me  up  'ere  with  a  blinkin'  little  'alf  baked  swab, 
what  don't  even  know  'ow  ter  wash  a  deck  proper ! 

KID.  Yea,  that's  all  I  do  —  wash  decks  !  And 
freeze  up  here  all  night.  B-r-r-r !  Say  Jo,  why  do 
they  need  two  guys  up  here? 

Jo- Jo.  Thought  yer  liked  ter  stand  watch? 
Yer  begged  the  Mite  ter  let  yer  come  with  me  the 
first  time. 

KID.  Well,  it  was  all  right  —  at  first.  But 
now  it's  always  the  same.  Everything's  the  same 
on  this  old  hooker  —  except  the  grub  !  That  gets 
worse  every  day. 

Jo-Jo.  Yer'd  better  go  'ome  an'  run  a  bloomin' 
bootcher  shop ! 

KID.  Why,  we  haven't  seen  a  whale  —  or  even 
an  iceberg.  It's  just  like  working  on  shore  — 
only  you  got  no  place  to  go,  and  you  sleep  in  a 
dirty  hole  with  a  pack  of  swine! 

Jo-Jo.  I  notice  they  washes  their  face  about 
as  often  as  you  do,  me  lad. 

KID  —  [breaking  in  on  him]      Say  — 

Jo-Jo.     Well  - 

KID.     Say !    What  'ud  they  do  if  I  give  'em  the 

[  6] 


THE    CROWSXEST 

slip !  Beat  it  when  we  come  to  port,  and  didn't 
come  back  again ! 

Jo- Jo.  Well,  now,  I  guess  they'd  tike  the  ship 
'ome  just  the  sime. 

[A  pause  and  Jo-Jo  adds  banteringly] 

What  would  you  do  all  alone  in  a  blinkin'  South 
American  port?  Join  the  army,  eh? 

KID  [eagerly]  D'you  think  they'd  take  me? 

Jo- Jo  [after  a  hearty  chuckle]  Tike  yer? 
Sure  they'd  tike  yer !  Always  lookin'  fer  brave 
young  bloods,  they  are.  Why  —  when  I  was  yer 
age  I  was  a  —  general. 

KID.     A  general !     You  ! 

Jo- Jo.  Well,  I  had  ter  be  a  colonel  first.  Why, 
I  was  president  of  their  blighted  country,  till  their 
bloody  revolution  went  to  pieces  —  then  I  slid  out 
o'  the  country  'id  in  a  box  o'  bananas ! 

KID.  When  you  were  my  age,  Jo- Jo !  Say  — 
say,  how  many  revolutions  you  been  in? 

Jo-Jo.     Oh,  a  dozen  or  more,  me  lad. 

KID  [sighing]  Gee!  If  I  could  do  something 
like  that  I'd  stay  at  sea.  I  wouldn't  mind  the 
work,  if  only  there  was  a  little  excitement ! 

Jo-Jo.  You  follows  the  sea  long  enough,  me 
lad,  an'  yer '11  get  all  the  excitement  yer  wants ! 

KID.  Yes,  but  not  on  this  old  hooker !  It's  the 
last  time  I'll  ever  sign  up  on  a  tramp  fruit  ship. 

Jo-Jo  [mysteriously]  Fruit  ship,  yer  said,  lad? 

KID.     Well,  ain't  she  a  fruit  ship? 

Jo-Jo  [piling  on  the  mystery]  Ah! 

KID.     What  do  you  mean? 

Jo- Jo.     Ah!     That's  the  question. 

[  7  ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

KID.  I  guess  I  ought  to  know!  I  handled 
crates  of  bananas  down  in  the  hold  till  I  could 
hardly  stand  up. 

Jo-Jo.  It's  a  big  'old,  Sonny,  an'  you  didn't 
'andle  every  crate  what  went  into  it. 

KID.     Huh? 

Jo-Jo.  A  big  'old,  Sonny  —  a  big  'old. 
What's  more  —  there's  room  f er  more  than  ba 
nanas.  Boxes,  maybe — 'id  underneath:  long 
boxes  ;  'eavy  ones  ! 

KID.     Rifles ! 

Jo- Jo.     Shush ! 

KID.     Rifles  —  and  ammunition !  ! 

Jo-Jo.  Shut  up,  will  yer !  D'yer  want  us  ter 
'ave  our  bloody  'eads  bashed  in? 

KID  [breathless]  Who  are  they  for? 

Jo- Jo.  What  was  that  yer  said?  Did  yer 
'ighness  h'address  a  question  ter  me? 

KID  [shaking  him]  Who  are  they  for,  Jo ! 

Jo-Jo  [in  a  deep  voice]  Ever  'ear  of  a  revolu 
tion!  Rifle  runnin' !  Yer '11  'ang  'igher  than  that 
rope  if  yer  caught ! 

KID.     When   do   we  land? 

Jo-Jo.  Not  in  the  daytime  —  yer  can  make  up 
mind  ter  that ! 

KID.     Tonight,  then ! 

Jo- Jo.     Aye,  tonight ! 

KID.     Gosh ! 

Jo-Jo.  Aye,  an'  fer  a  damn  good  reason ! 
Bananas  in  the  'old :  very  valuable  fruit  down  'ere 
—  an'  the  sunlight  spoils  'em. 

KID  [very  wise]  Oh,  it's  not  that,  Jo. 

[  8  ] 


THE    CROWSXEST 

Jo -Jo.  Or  maybe  —  maybe  there's  a  blinkin' 
cruiser  waitin'  at  the  mouth  o'  the  'arbor :  Wait- 
iiv  ter  tike  'em  off  fer  breakfast ! 

KID.     How  do  you  know  all  this? 

Jo-Jo.  Aye,  -ow  does  I  know  all  this  —  that's 
the  question. 

KID  [springing  to  the  side  of  the  nest]  Look, 
Jo  !  Is  it  —  the  cruiser  ! 

Jo- Jo.  What  are  yer  talkin'  about?  Who 
said  any  thin'  about  a  cruiser? 

KID.  *   The  light  —  the  light  out  there ! 

Jo-Jo.     That's  the  coast :     shore-lights,  sonny  ! 

KID.  Gee !  I  bet  it  is  the  cruiser !  Do  you 
think  they'll  see  us? 

Jo-Jo.  They'll  'ear  us  if  yer  don't  keep  ver 
trap  closed! 

KID  [delightedly]  We're  in  real  danger  now, 
ain't  we,  Jo? 

Jo -Jo  [yawning]  Aw,  shut  up.  I'm  sick  o' 
'earin'  yer  gabble. 

KID.     I  bet  there'll  be  shooting! 

Jo- Jo.  Shut  up,  shut  up,  or  I'll  slap  yer  face. 
[He  looks  towards  shore  and  says  fervently]  I 
wishes  I  was  ashore,  with  a  tidy  bottle  o'  rum 
at  me  elbow,  'earin'  some  gal  'it  at  a  bloomin' 
tambourine  —  that's  what  I  wish. 

KID  [one  sinner  to  another]  Say,  Jo  !  Swede's 
got  a  bottle  o'  rum  hid  down  in  his  sea-chest. 
Let's  pinch  it.  I'm  dry  as  hell! 

Jo-Jo.     You  !     Gawd  —  listen  to   'im  talk. 

KID.  It'll  kinda  —  help  us  to  keep  our  nerve 
up,  Jo ! 

[  9  ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

Jo- Jo  [moving  towards  the  ladder]  Well,  well 
-bless  'is  little  'eart! 

KID.     Lemme  go  for  it,  Jo ! 

Jo- Jo.  Take  yer  'ands  off  me :  don't  ver  think 
I  can  steal  me  own  liquor? 

KID  [slumping  against  the  rail]  Aw,  you  never 
will  let  me  do  nothing! 

Jo-Jo,  [on  the  ladder]  'Old  yer  'ead  up,  me 
precious  an'  don't  go  to  sleep,  an'  I'll  bring 
yer  a  thimbleful,  maybe. 

KID.     Aw,   shut   up ! 

Jo- Jo  [on  the  ladder  out  of  sight]  Yer  all  alone 
now,  so(  don't  let  'er  run  on  no  bloomin'  reefs. 
'Don't  let  the  cruiser  catch  us,  captain!  [His 
laughter  is  heard  as  he  goes  down.] 

KID  —  [his  head  slumped  down  on  to  his  arms] 
Aw,  go  to  hell ! 

The  Kid  looks  out  to  sea,  then  emits  a  dis 
illusioned  grunt.  He  yawns,  stretches  and  set 
tles  himself  against  the  rail.  His  head  droops 
lower  and  lower.  The  stage  goes  gradually 
darker.  The  light  of  the  sky  changes  from  grey- 
blue  to  a  deep  turquoise.  From  the  sea  a  light 
blinks,  then  blinks  four  times,  rapidly.  The  Kid 
straightens  up  and  notices  the  light.  Once  more 
it  blinks;  once,  followed  by  four  quick  dashes: 
—.  The  Kid  springs  to  the  side  of  the  nest 
and  whispers  "  Jo- Jo!  "  several  times  The  ladder 
sways  and  bangs  against  the  nest.  Someone  is 
coming  aloft.  A  man  enters  the  nest.  It  is  not 
Jo-Jo. 

[  10] 


THE    CROWSXEST 

MATE  [speaking  with  a  Swedish  accent] 
Where's  Cho? 

KID.     He's  sick ;  he's  gone  below. 

MATE.     Sick,  eh?  [fiercely]  Douse  thad  light! 

KID  [hurriedly]  Yes,  sir!  [He  takes  down  the 
masthead  light  and  as  he  does  so  he  involuntarily 
swings  it.] 

MATE.  Quid  thad!  [He  grasps  the  light  and 
cautiously  blows  it  out,  shielding  it  with  his  coat.] 
Haf  you  been  fooling  wid  thad  light? 

KID.  I  haven't  touched  it,  sir.  Is  anything 
wrong? 

MATE.     Dere's  dirty  work  aboard! 

KID.  P'raps  the  light  was  swinging  with  the 
roll  of  the  ship,  or  maybe  —  someone  on  the  ladder 
underneath  the  crowsnest,  sir.  We  couldn't  a 
seen  'em  from  here. 

MATE  [grabbing  him]  Don't  lie  to  me! 

KID.     I'm  not  lying,  Mr.  Peturson ! 

MATE.     How  long  haf  you  been  up  here  alone? 

KID.  Not  more'n  a  minute,  sir.  I  wonder  you 
didn't  pass  him  on  deck. 

MATE.  See  here !  You  sure  he  went  down  the 
mast  ladder? 

KID.     There  ain't  no  other  way,  sir. 

MATE  [pointing]  How  about  thad  ladder  ub 
dare  ? 

KID.     But  I  saw  him  go  down,  sir. 

MATE.     Sick,  eh? 

KID.     Yes,  sir. 

MATE.  If  he  was  sick  why  didn't  he  come  to 
the  pridge  and  let  me  know  he  was  going  pelow ! 


THE    CROWSNEST 

KID.  He^was  coming  right  back,  just  as  soon 
as  he  got  a  bit  of  a  drink. 

MATE  [laying  hold  of  the  Kid]  You  see  thad 
wader  down  dare?  How'd  you  like  me  to  drob 
you  right  into  some  shark's  pelly ! 

KID  [crying  out  in  pain]  Leggo  !  You're  hurt 
ing  me! 

MATE.  We're  ten  miles  from  shore.  If  you're 
lying  to  me  you'll  swim  in,  see! 

KID.  I'm  not  lying  sir  —  so  help  me  God  I'm 
not! 

MATE.  Then  why  did  you  tell  me  Cho  went  pe- 
low  for  a  drink?  I  just  looked  into  the  fo'castle. 
He  wasn't  dare! 

KID  [stubbornly]  He  told  me  he  was  going 
below  for  a  drink. 

MATE.     Sick,  eh? 

KID.  No  sir.  I  just  told  you  that  'cause  I 
was  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  his  leaving  watch. 

MATE  [sneering  at  him]  Bud  you  kep  preddy 
good  watch  yourself? 

KID.     I  wasn't  alone  for  more'n  a  minute. 

MATE.  Don't  dry  to  hide  anything  from  me, 
sonny !  I  heard  you  whisbering  down  thad 
ladder ! 

KID  [breathless]  Mr.  Peturson,  I  did  see  some 
thing,  but  I  didn't  think  you  and  the  Captain 
wanted  - 

MATE.     Well ! 

KID.  Mr.  Peturson !  I  saw  a  light  —  out 
there!  It's  the  cruiser,  ain't  it,  sir? 

MATE.     Who's  been  dalking  to  you ! 

[  12  ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

KID.     No  one,  sir. 

MATE.  You're  a  preddy  wise  kid.  Dis  your 
first  cruise? 

KID.     I  used  to  work  on  a  ferryboat,  sir! 

MATE  [savagely]  If  I  touglit  you  was  mixed 
ub  in  this  business  I'd  trow  you  overboard,  you 
whelp ! 

KID.  I'm  not  mixed  up  in  it,  sir  —  but  I  know 
there's  something  below  beside  bananas ! 

MATE.     What's  dat ! 

KID.      Something  heavier  than  bananas ! 

MATE.  You're  a  smard  boy:  I  suppose  you 
guessed  dat. 

KID.     No,  sir.     Someone  told  me. 

MATE  [quick  as  a  flash]  Was  it  Cho-Cho? 

KID  [confused]  I  —  mustn't  tell.  sir. 

MATE  [earnestly]  See  here,  lad!  Id'll  mean 
fifty  poun'  for  you  if  you  dell  the  truth.  Did  you 
see  Cho  touch  dat  light? 

KID.  No,  sir  —  except  just  to  look  for  a  knife 
he  dropped  when  he  was  cutting  his  plug, 

MATE  [triiunphantly]  So!  He  went  to  all  the 
drouble  of  daking  down  the  light.  [Then]  Do  you 
know  why  he  did  that,.poy? 

KID.  No  sir,  —  'less  he  was  afraid  a  match 
would  blow  out. 

MATE.  Then  I'll  dell  you!  He  swung  dat 
light  to  giv'  away  our  position  to  that  cruiser 
out  there!  ! 

KID.     Golly  !     Traitors  aboard ! 

MATE.     That   kinda   surbrises   you?     Well,   it 

[  13  ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

don't  surbrise  me!  I  never  yet  trusted  these 
damned  limys ! 

KID.      Why  would  he  do  it? 

MATE.  Gold !  Money !  —  Thad's  what  they 
pay  for  thad  kind  of  pusiness.  If  we're  caught 
it  means  the  hanging  of  every  man  on  poard  — 
except  him.  You  better  dell  all  you  know,  lad. 

KID.     I  don't  know  nothing  else,  sir. 

MATE.  Dere  are  five  tousand  rifles  in  the  hold 
of  dis  shib.  We  ged  ten  dollars  a  gun !  If  you 
do  as  I  say  you  ged  one  tousand  of  thad  pile! 

KID.     A  thousand!  —  What  is  it,  sir? 

MATE.  Shiver  my  timbers,  lad!  Aren't  you 
afraid? 

KID  [magnificently]  What's  the  dope,  lad? 
I'm  your  man ! 

MATE.  Go  pelow  to  my  cabin.  You'll  find  a 
gun  under  my  pillow.  Pring  it  pack  as  quick  as 
you  can  move. 

KID.     Aye,  aye,  sir! 

MATE.     Hurry  !     Don't  led  him  see  you ! 

KID  [on  the  ladder]  Keep  up  your  courage, 
lad !  I'll  be  back ! 

[He  goes  below.  The  mate  makes  a  hurried 
examination  of  the  nest  with  a  flash  light.  The 
ladder  sways  again.  Someone  is  coming  up  from 
below.] 

Jo-Jo  [on  the  ladder,  out  of  sight]  Si,  kid! 
'old  out  the  bloomin'  lamp.  I  can't  'ardly  see. 

[No  reply.  Jo  enters  the  nest]  What  ch'er 
mean  by  lettin'  the  lamp  go  out  ?  —  Gone  ter  sleep 
'ave  yer?  Hi!  wike  up. 

[14  ] 


THE   CROWSNEST 

[He  draws  a  small  signal  lamp  (red)  from 
under  his  coat,  and  lifts  it  up  and  down  several 
times.] 

MATE  [straightening  up]  Well,  Cho-Cho ! 

Jo-Jo.     Mr.  Peturson! 

MATE.     Aye,  and  douse  thad  light  ( 

Jo-Jo.      Captain's  orders,  sir, 

MATE.      Douse  thad  light ! 

Jo-Jo.  You  don't  run  this  *ere  ship !  [The 
Mate  swings  at  him.  Jo  ducks  and  pulls  a  gun.] 
You  whimper  an'  I'll  shoot  yer  through  the  guts, 
so  'elp  me  Gawd ! 

MATE  [hands  over  head]  So  you're  the  dirdy 
snake  thad's  been  doing  all  dis !  I  susbected  you 
all  along,  you  damned  limy ! 

Jo- Jo.  You  be  careful  o'  your  language.  If 
yer  don't,  mister  Mite,  I'll  put  a  'ole  through  yer. 

MATE.  You've  god  me  now,  but  when  dis  ting's 
over  I'll  ged  you,  don't  forged  dat — I'll  ged 
you ! 

Jo- Jo.  Yes,  an'  when  yer  lined  up  agin  a 
bloomin'  wall  with  the  rest  'o  yer  bloody  crew, 
an'  they  shoots  ye  full  o'  'oles  yer'U  do  a  lot  a 
'arm,  won't  yer? 

MATE  [with  trembling  voice]  See  here,  Cho- 
Cho!  You  wouldn't  turn  over  your  old  ship 
mates,  Cho-Cho?  Why,  it  would  mean  the  death 
of  every  man  on  board! 

Jo-Jo.  Except  me !  It  means  a  tidy  thousand 
poun'  fer  me,  an'  a  major-general's  commission  in 
their  bloody  army,  if  yer  please!  [Pie  takes  the 
signal  light  from  where  he  has  hung  it  on  the  mast 

[  15  ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

and  begins  to  swing  it.  The  light  from  the  sea 
answers.  The  mate  groans  in  helpless  rage] 
She  ain't  much  'o  a  cruiser  from  my  way  a 
thinkin'  —  but  she's  faster  than  this  'ere  old  box. 
Any  news  for  the  missis,  Mite,  when  I  gets  back 
ter  Lunnon?  'Ow  yer  was  brave  ter  the  end,  'an 
wouldn't  let  'cm  bandage  yer  bloomin'  eyes? 

[He  hangs  the  lamp  on  the  mast  and  the  Mate 
moves  for  him.  Jo  turns  like  a  flash  and  jams  the 
gun  against  his  ribs.  They  are  very  close.]  None 
o'  that !  —  -  'Ow  does  yer  like  the  feel  o'  that  against 
yer  belly? 

[Voices  from  below,  becoming  louder  and  louder. 
At  least  a  dozen  men  must  be  assembled  at  the 
foot  of  the  mast] 

VOICE.     The  Mate's  aloft,  boys ! 

KID  [on  deck]  Are  you  there,  Mr.  Peturson? 

Jo-Jo  [to  the  Mate]  Shut  —  up! 

VOICE.     Go  get  him,  Swede!  [Ladder  sways] 

Jo-Jo  [pulling  another  gun]  Stay  where  you 
are!  Another  inch  an'  I  shoot! 

VOICE  ON  LADDER.  Go  to  hell !  —  [A  forearm 
and  fist  appear,  grasping  upward.  Jo  shoots. 
Thud  as  body  falls  to  deck,  followed  by  groan  of 
dismay] 

Jo-Jo.  That's  one,  an'  I  got  enough  left  for 
heverybody,  so  step  up,  mites ! 

KID  [below]  Don't  shoot!    You'll  hit  the  Mate. 

MATE.     Plaze  away,  poys  ! 

KID.     Leave  him  to  me,  lads ! 

VOICE.     Aye,  let  the  Kid  get  him! 

Jo -Jo  [sneering  over  the  edge]  Aye,  let  the  Kid 

[  16  ]" 


THE    CROWSXEST 

get  'im,  you  white  livered  skunks !  There  ain't 
a  man  in  the  crew  what's  got  pluck  enough  to  come 
an'  get  me  hisself !  [Signal  light  blinks  from  the 
sea]  Yer  see  that,  lads?  Don't  worry  —  I'll  tike 
the  news  'ome  ter  yer  gals.  [A  figure  appears  on 
the  ladder  leading  to  the  spar  above  the  nest.  Jo- 
Jo,  leaning  over  the  side,  does  not  see  it.~\  Twice  as 
nice  as  dyin'  in  bed  an'  no  funeral  hexpenses. 
Buried  by  the  gov'n'ment,  as  it  were.  Now  the 
Mite  'ere,  'e  's  goin'  ter  'ave  me  'anged.  What 
ch'er  think  o'  that,  lads  —  have  ol'  Jo-Jo  'anged ! 
-  Don't  stand  so  quiet,  mites.  Yer  look  up  'ere 
as  though  yer  'spected  the  Hangel  Gabriel  ter 
come  down  the  bloomin'  mast  fer  yer!  Just  wait, 
lads- 

[Here  the  Kid,  wlw  has  crept  along  the  spar,  a 
liuge  knife  in  his  teetli,  readies  the  mast,  and  drops 
into  the  nest  on  to  Jo-Jo.  Great  roar  below.'} 

MATE.     Hold  his  arm,  lad ! 

[A  shot  rings  out  in  the  nest  and  the  stage  goes 
black.']  Over  with  him,  lad! 

Jo- Jo  [screaming]  Don't !  Oh  Gawd,  mites  — 
don't!  [Silence — then  four  bells  sound.  Very 
slowly  the  light  begins  to  grow  until  it  reaches  the 
cold  grey  of  early  dawn.  Jo- Jo  is  smoking  in  the 
crowsnest.  The  Mate  is  seen  climbing  up  ladder. 
The  Kid  leans  against  the  rail  in  sleep.] 

MATE   [entering  nest]   Hi,  Jo-Jo! 

Jo-Jo.  'Ullo,  sir.  [Points  to  Kid]  He's  a  pretty 
one!  Couldn't  keep  'is  blessed  eyes  open  all  night. 
[Shakes  Kid]  Hi!  Wike  up.  [Kid  wakes  with  a 
start,  a  little  cry.  He  sees  Jo  and  jumps  at  his 

[   17  ] 


THE    CROWSNEST 

throat.  Jo  slaps  his  face.  The  Kid  begins  to 
cry. 

KID  \in  bewilderment]  You  —  you! 

MATE.  Yes,  me.  Go  pelow  and  wash  the  aft 
deck,  you  swab. 

Km  [meekly  and  in  a  dazed  voice]  Yes,  sir. 

He  crawls  down  the  ladder,  glancing  yearningly 
aloft  as 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 


[18] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

BY 

M.  A.   KISTER 


CHARACTERS 

PAPERE  FLAIRY 
MAMERE  FLAIRY 
DELOR  FLAIRY 
LUCILLE  GUESTIER 
HAROLD  GUESTIER 
JOSEPH  RAMEAU 
LITTLE  VICTOR 
DEROCHIE 

McDoNALD 

GUARDS 


Copyright,  1922,  by  M.  A.  Kister.  Permission  for 
amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must 
first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College, 
Cambridge,  Mass.  Moving  Pictures  rights  reserved. 


THE  HARD  HEART 

[Flair  y's  dining-room.  Left,  a  door  leading 
into  the  parlor;  center  rear,  a  door  and  window 
opening  upon  the  porch.  Mamere  is  sitting, 
right;  Delor  stands  by  the  rear  door;  and  Papere 
is  crossing  toward  him  as  the  curtain  rises.] 

MAMERE.  Dark  —  will  the  dark  hurt  him, 
then? 

DELOR      [glancing  at  her,  laughs.] 

PAPERE.  I  don'  know.  But  I  know  it's  a 
night  to  stay  in.  Now  you  have  my  word  on  it. 

[He  locks  the  porch-door,  and  returns  toward 
the  parlor,  stopping  long  enough  to  hold  up  the 
key.} 

Show  me  how  you  get  out  now ! 

DELOR      [throws  up  the  window.] 

MAMERE.      He  goes  to  look  for  his  gun. 

DELOR.     Eh? 

MAMERE.  He  hopes  to  find  it  in  the  top- 
drawer. 

DELOR.  Will  Papere  try  keeping  me  in  with 
a  gun?  [Laughs.] 

MAMERE.  You  know  how  your  father  is  —  so 
quiet,  old-like.  And  he  don'  want  you  to  go  out. 
If  he  see  you  going  out,  I  don'  know  myself,  but 
maybe  he  shoot  at  you.  [Laughs.] 

[  21   ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

DELOR.  So  he  don't  want  me  to  go  out. 
[Laughs.]  You  can  do  something  for  me! 

MAMERE      [hungrily]     Ah,    you   trus'   in   me! 

DELOR.     How  do  you  feel,  Mamere? 

MAMERE.  I  don'  know  nothing.  But  I  feel  — 
what  you  like,  I  like  that,  too. 

DELOR.  Yes,  I  know  you.  You're  egging  me 
on. 

MAMERE.  I  want  you  to  do  what  you  want  to. 
That's  all. 

DELOR.  Maybe  I  want  to  go  out,  and  maybe 
I  don't.  [He  starts  to  climb  through  the  window.] 

MAMERE  [mischievous]  It  mus'  be  he  can 
not  find  his  re-vol-ver. 

DELOR.  I  will  wait  till  he  finds  it.  Maybe 
there  will  be  some  fun. 

MAMERE.     You  think  I  will  get  you  out. 

[Delor  laughs.] 

MAMERE  [bitterly]  Ah,  your  mother  —  you 
know  she  did  always  get  you  out  of  trouble ! 

DELOR.  Sure,  she's  crazy  about  me.  She  likes 
me  even  better  than  her  plants,  those  that  won't 
live  in  the  winter  .  .  .  Remember  your  lemon 
tree  ? 

MAMERE.     Pshaw,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it ! 

DELOR      [masterful]      Remember  it ! 

MAMERE  [meekly]  Well,  it  has  grown  so 
big! 

[She  malces  a  gesture  representing  a  height 
the  same  as  his.] 

DELOR.     Yes.     It  is  dead. 

MAMERE.     Ah  ...    !  I  don'  believe  you. 

[22] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

DELOR.  All  right.  When  I  put  it  out  today, 
after  the  parade  — 

MAMERE.  It  is  the  one  I  planted  when  you 
was  born. 

DELOR.  Yes.  When  I  put  it  out  for  fun,  the 
iceman's  horses  trampled  on  it. 

MAMERE.  I  raised  it  from  so  high  —  such  a 
nice  tree  —  un  arbre  gai,  do  you  understand? 

DELOR.     I  gave  the  iceman  a  calldown  for  it. 

MAMERE.  Ah,  what  for?  I  can  see  it  was  the 
iceman's  horse. 

DELOR.     Well,  it  don't  matter. 

MAMERE.     Oh,  no,  no,  no  ! 

DELOR.  We  won't  cry.  What's  one  tree  more 
or  less? 

MAMERE.  Sure,  we  don'  care.  Yet  it  was  my 
tree,  for  myself.  And  I  did  plant  it  when  you 
was  born. 

DELOR.  But  we  won't  cry.  We  don't  believe 
in  crying  like  the  rest.  [Laughs] 

MAMERE.     No,  no!      [Laughs'] 

DELOR.  Ah,  you're  crying.  I  can  see  your 
face  is  wet. 

MAMERE.     It's  not  so. 

DELOR.  Hurry  up  —  wipe  your  face  before 
Papere  comes  back. 

MAMERE.     It's  a  lie. 

DELOR  [comforting]  Don't  call  me  a  liar, 
or  I'll  break  your  neck. 

MAMERE.     It's  plain  you're  not  big  enough. 

DELOR.     Do  as  I  tell  you. 

MAMERE.     You  make  me ! 

[  23] 


. 


THE  HARD  HEART 

DELOR.     No   crying  here! 

[As  he  advances,  she  slaps  his  face.  He  seizes 
her  by  the  elbows.  For  a  moment  she  remains  de 
fiant,  then  goes  limp  suddenly.] 

MAMERE     [girlishly]     Look   out  —  you  hurt ! 

DELOR.  See  !  Now  you  do  as  I  tell  you  —  all 
the  time.  And  don't  forget  it.  [He  crosses  left, 
and  sits  down.] 

MAMERE      [smugly]     All  right. 

[As  she  rubs  her  sleeve  across  her  eyes,  Paper e 
comes  back,  and  silently  takes  a  seat  by  the  locked 
door.] 

MAMERE.     So  }^ou  don't  find  your  gun? 

PAPERE  [aggressive]  Who  says  I  was  look- 
in'  for  my  gun? 

MAMERE.     Voila ! 

[Taking  the  revolver  from  her  dress,  she  holds 
it  toward  her  husband,  who  at  first  starts  for  it, 
but  stops.  She  lays  it  on  the  floor.] 

MAMERE.  You  want  it  —  you  don'  want  it  — 
there  it  is ! 

PAPERE      [to  Delor]     I  see  you're  here. 

DELOR.     You're  right. 

PAPERE.     I  see  you're  not  goin'  out,  either. 

DELOR.     You're  seeing  things. 

PAPERE.     I  won't  stand  for  it! 

MAMERE.     Tell  me,  what  day  it  is? 

DELOR.     Labor  Day. 

PAPERE.  They  didn't  use  to  be  a  day  for 
celebratin'  goin'  to  work. 

DELOR.  Around  here  it  must  be  to  celebrate 
being  out  of  work. 

[  24  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

MAMERE.  Pshaw!  I  know  it's  a  holiday  my 
self.  Haven't  I  been  making  the  pies  and  cakes 
for  the  fete  tonight?  But  what  I  am  thinking  is, 
there  was  a  touch  of  the  frost  last  night,  as  I  don' 
remember  coming  so  early  before. 

DELOR  [irritated]  Oh,  I  know  what  you're 
driving  at ! 

PAPERE  [mumbling]  I  don'  know  what's  got 
in  'em,  these  days. 

DELOR.     Say,  do  you  like  to  work? 

PAPERE      [shouting']      You  bet  I  do! 

DELOR.     I'd  rather  throw  horseshoes. 

PAPERE.  I  allus  was  a  good  worker.  When 
I  was  a  kid  I  picked  up  berries  for  the  butcher.  I 
picked  up  coal  on  the  tracks,  too.  That's  what  a 
real  man's  got  to  do. 

[Mamcre  joins  in  with  him  at  this  point,  and 
the  following  speeches  are  given  together,  Ma- 
mere's  rising  triumphantly  above  her  husband's, 
which  soon  subside  into  a  sort  of  grumble.] 

PAPERE:  And  I  pulled  nets  on  the  river  for 
Simon 

MAMERE  :  What  I  am  thinking  is  the  touch  of 
frost 

PAPERE:  Fouquereau.  After  that  I  worked 
at  the 

MAMERE  :  Has  made  the  green  apples  ripe. 
When  you 

PAPERE  :  foundry  arid  the  shipyard.  When 
I  got  through 

MAMERE  :  Was  enfant  there  was  a  dozen  trees 
around  here: 

[  25  ] 


THE    HARD    HEART 

PAPERE:  with  George  Wilson,  he  said  him 
self  that  I  drug 

MAMERE  :  But  now  the  only  one  is  at  McDon 
ald's.  It  is 

PAPERE  :  ,  more  stone  than  any  two  teams  he 
ever  had  workin'. 

MAMERE  :  Jus'  beyond  the  iron  fence,  near  the 
house,  [alone  \  Now  all  the  green  apples  are  at 
McDonald's. 

DELOR  [  irritated]  I  know,  I  know !  I'll  get 
them. 

PAPERE  [darkly,  to  his  wife]  You  could 
do  better  than  talkin'  me  down. 

DELOR.  Come  on  —  I  want  to  get  away  before 
the  folks  !  Let's  have  the  key  now. 

PAPERE.     No,  sir! 

DELOR  [laughing']  Maybe  I'm  a  dub,  eh? 
[He  throws  up  tlie  window. ,] 

PAPERE.  Drop  that,  drop  that!  [He  picks 
up  his  revolver.] 

DELOR.     Look  out  —  that's  loaded. 

PAPERE.     I  know  who  loaded  it. 

DELOR.     Say,  where  do  you  think  I'm  going? 

PAPERE.     I  don'  like  the  way  you  act. 

DELOR.     What  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  do? 

PAPERE.  I'm  tellin'  you  what  you're  goin' 
to  do. 

DELOR  [laughing'}  So  you'll  shoot  at  me  to 
keep  me  in ! 

PAPERE.     I  can  stand  just  about  so  much. 

DELOR.     Well,  go  ahead  —  and  shoot ! 

[  26  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

[He  puts  a  leg  through  the  window.  Paper e 
raises  the  revolver.] 

MAMERE.     Ah-ah-ah-ah ! 

DELOR.  What's  the  matter,  Ma.  Want  me  to 
come  back? 

MAMERE  [shaking  her  head  in  denial]  Ah- 
ah-ah ! 

PAPERE.  It's  the  pain  in  the  back.  Sacre 
diable!  [He  throws  his  pistol  to  the  floor.  His 
voice  is  beaten  and  plaintive]  I  don'  want  him 
to  go  out  —  I  don'  want  him  to  go  out ! 

MAMERE  [calmly]  I  want  him  to  do  as  he 
like. 

DELOR.  Somebody's  coming  —  I  think  the 
Guestiers.  [He  slams  the  window  down] 

MAMERE  [To  her  husband]  You  —  unlock 
the  door  quick  and  put  that  gun  away.  What  if 
that  girl  was  to  find  us  like  this!  Delor,  you  let 
them  in. 

PAPERE  [picking  up  his  revolver]  Ah,  my 
poor  old  one  —  it  is  broken. 

[He  goes  into  the  parlor.  A  knock;  Delor 
adjnits  a  young  man  and  young  woman] 

MAMERE.  How  do  you  do.  I  see  you  got  your 
brother  too.  Here,  giye  me  your  hat,  Harold. 
Delor,  help  Lucille  with  her  coat. 

DELOR.      She  ain't  got  a  busted  arm. 

LUCILLE.  He  talks  like  we  was  married  al 
ready. 

MAMERE.  Well,  I  hope  he  don'  talk  like  that 
no  more. 

LUCILLE.       I  don't  mind. 

[  27  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

MAMERE.     I  bet  you  don'. 

[She  carries  Lucille's  coat  into  the  parlor, 
leaving  the  girl  standing  alone,  embarrassed.] 

HAROLD.  I  hear  you  pulled  off  a  good  one 
today. 

DELOR      [admitting  nothing]     Yeh? 

HAROLD.     I  wasn't  there  myself. 

DELOR.     I  guess  you  wouldn't  be. 

HAROLD  {defensively'}  Well,  it's  none  of  my 
business.  I  never  worked  at  the  shipyard.  [Flat 
tering]  Everybody's  wondering  what  you'll  do 
next. 

DELOR.     I  hope  they  don't  get  fooled. 

[Enter  Papere,  who  greets  the  Guestiers,  and 
kisses  Lucille  in  a  formal  way.] 

PAPERE.  Lucille  —  do  you  know  —  the  kid  he 
is  going  to  leave  us. 

LUCILLE.     Going  to  leave  me,  too? 

[Mamere  returns.] 

DELOR.     I  don't  see  much  to  keep  me. 

MAMERE  [with  devilry].  Maybe  Lucille  — 
she  could  coax  him  to  stay. 

HAROLD.  Ah,  let  him  go !  He's  got  something 
up  his  sleeve.  To-morrow  everybody'll  be  talking 
about  him. 

MAMERE.  Maybe  he's  got  another  girl  —  I 
don'  know. 

LUCILLE.     It's  just  exactly  like  him. 

PAPERS.     Where  would  he  find  anybody? 

DELOR.     I  guess  you  don't  look  around. 

PAPERE.     But  I  don'  see  nobody  like  my  Lucille. 

DELOR.     It  must  be  your  eyes  is  bad. 

[  28  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

LUCILLE  [seriously,  nervous]  I'm  'fraid  I 
haven't  any  influence. 

[A  knock.  Enter  two  men  and  a  boy  of  eight, 
who  exchange  greetings  with  those  present.] 

FIRST  MAX.  Hello,  Delor;  I  see  you're  still 
kickin'  around. 

DELOR.     They  haven't  got  me  yet. 

FIRST  MAX.  You  going  to  stay  in  —  lay  low 
for  a  while? 

DELOR.  [mocking]  What VI  you  do,  Dero- 
chie  ? 

DEROCHIE.     Just   wait  —  slick   it   over. 

SECOXD  MAX.  Everybody's  all  behind  you  to 
the  last  drop,  Delor. 

DELOR.     Yeh  —  I  know. 

DEROCHIE.  Trouble  —  no  use.  Rameau's  al 
ways  talking  fight. 

MAMERE  [to  Rameau]  Delor's  going  out 
tonight,  Joseph. 

RAMEAU.  That's  the  good  stuff!  Go  up  and 
take  him  by  the  nose,  son. 

DEROCHIE.  No,  just  smooth  it  over,  explain 
—  sorry. 

DELOR.  Oh,  what  do  I  care  about  him,  one 
way  or  the  other ! 

MAMERE.     What    are    they    talking    about? 

DELOR.     They're  a  great  couple  of  kidders. 

MAMERE  [doubtful]  Maybe  you  better  stay 
here. 

LUCILLE      [eagerly]     Yes,  we'll  have  a  dance. 

DELOR.     I've  done  that  before. 

[  29  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

LUCILLE.  Look  —  your  mother  has  got  wine 
and  cake  ready. 

MAMERE.  Don't  worry  —  I'll  save  him  some 
of  that. 

DELOR.  Maybe  I  won't  want  it  when  I  get 
back. 

DEROCHIE.  You  see  —  if  he  goes  up  and  slicks 
it  over  —  it  will  help  the  whole  bunch. 

RAMEAU.  Don't  knuckle  down,  Delor ;  don't 
knuckle  down. 

HAROLD.  Why,  if  you  put  it  over  on  him, 
they'll  talk  about  it  for  a  week! 

PAPERE.  I'm  against  it.  I  allus  was  against 
it,  right  from  the  beginning,  and  I'm  against  it 
now. 

LUCILLE.      Stay   and   walk   home   with   me. 

DELOR.     If  I  stay  in,  I  stay  in. 

LUCILLE.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  go. 

MAMERE.     Let  him  do  as  he  likes. 

[She  exchanges  a  glance  with  him,  and  they 
both  laugh.  Delor  opens  the  door.~\ 

DELOR.  So  long.  I'll  be  back  before  you  know 
it  —  before  you  finish  dancing. 

[He  goes.     A  pause.] 

PAPERE    [pounding    the    table]    Sacre    diable ! 

LUCILLE.  Now  we've  got  nothing  to  do  but 
wait  for  him. 

[A  pause.] 

HAROLD.  Mamere,  did  I  hear  you  say  some 
thing  about  wine? 

MAMERE.  Sure,  sure ;  you  all  go  into  the  par 
lor  for  a  while. 

[  30  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

LUCILLE.     I'll  help   you. 

MAMERE.     No,  no,  no  ! 

LUCILLE.     I  want  to. 

MAMERE.     Well,  sit  down. 

[The  men  and  the  boy  Victor  go  out,  while  the 
women  arrange  their  refreshments.] 

LUCILLE.     I  see  they  are  laying  out  tonight. 

MAMERE.     Who  is  that? 

LUCILLE.     The  Laflures. 

MAMERE.     Those  around  the  corner? 

LUCILLE.  Yes.  I  peeked  in  the  window  coming 
by  —  I  couldn't  help  peeking — the  old  man 
looked  fine  —  he  had  a  hundred  candles  —  the 
big  dear  ones  —  all  around  him. 

MAMERE.     It  must  have  been  a  treat. 

LUCILLE.  I  like  candles,  don't  you?  They 
look  fine. 

MAMERE.  Yes.  And  we  are  told  to  have  them, 
too.  [With  a  suggestion  of  crossing  herself} 
I  can  slice  this  cake  myself.  Oh,  mon  dieu,  the 
cigars  !  Here,  take  them  the  cigars  ! 

[Lucille  goes  into  the  parlor.  Mamere  hums  the 
tune  of  La  Galcre.  Delor  enters,  very  quiet. ~\ 

What  's  the  matter?  Did  you  forget  some 
thing? 

[Delor  shakes  his  head  sullenly.! 

Didn't  you  forget  nothing? 

DELOR.     Oh,  no !     I  don't  know. 

MAMERE.     If  there's  anything  you  want  — 

Delor.     No,  no. 

MAMERE  [as  if  to  herself]  Maybe  you  don' 
feel  well.  Today  I  was  goin'  to  make  you  a  pie; 

[  31  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

but  there  was  no  green  apples  in  the  house.  To 
morrow  I  will  make  you  one. 

DELOR.     I  went  by  Laflure's. 

MAMERE.  I  remember,  when  you  was  enfant, 
there  was  a  dozen  trees  around  here.  I  used  to 
hold  you  up  to  pick  the  little  green  apples.  The 
sun  used  to  shine  in  your  eyes.  You  was  un  blanc 
bebe  — 

DELOR.  I  looked  in  the  window  going  by 
Laflure's.  They  are  laying  the  old  man  out. 

MAMERE.  Your  cheeks  was  white  like  milk. 
Ah,  you  are  white  now! 

DELOR  [holding  himself  as  if  sickened]  They 
are  fussing  over  the  old  man;  I  could  see;  they 
have  a  lot  of  candles. 

MAMERE.     You  know  why. 

DELOR.  Not  for  me.  No  fussing  and  no  can 
dles,  no  candles,  if  ever  — 

MAMERE.     Ah,  pshaw !     You  are  young. 

DELOR.  You  aren't  like  Mamere  Laflure. 
Why  don't  you  never  cry  or  hold  your  hands? 

MAMERE.  When  you  're  here,  I  feel  young,  too. 
But  when  you  ain't  here,  maybe  I  could  cry.  Bah ! 
We  don'  cry  like  the  rest.  Tomorrow  I  will  make 
you  a  pie.  Let's  do  something  for  fun. 

DELOR.  Well,  I  will  go  up  now.  What's  an 
old  guy  and  a  couple  of  candles ! 

MAMERE.      Sure,  we  are  young  —  you  and  me. 

DELOR  [pointing  toward  the  parlor]  What 
would  they  say?  [He  laughs.] 

MAMERE  [laughing]  It's  a  joke  on  them. 

DELOR.     Good-by.  [He  opens  the  door.] 

[  32  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

MAMERE.     It's  true  you  did  forget  something. 

DELOR.     Let  me  worry. 

[He  starts  out,  but  returns;  and  holds  and 
kisses  her  passionately.  Lucille  comes  back.] 

MAMERE  [with  devilry]  Here's  Lucille. 

DELOR.      /  see  her. 

[He  goes.    Lucille  gives  a  sharp  sob.    A  pause.] 

MAMERE.  It's  all  right.  You  can  cry  as  long 
as  he's  not  here. 

[Little  Victor  comes  in.] 

VICTOR.  Mamere,  are  you  going  to  stand  up 
tonight  ? 

MAMERE  [flattered]  Little  pig,  mind  your 
own  business.  Here  is  a  piece  of  candy. 

[Enter  the  men,  talking.] 

RAMEAU.  Crash!  it  went  like  that,  all  over  the 
walk. 

HAROLD.     That's  what  they  told  me. 

MAMERE.     What's  this? 

DEROCHIE.     At  our  parade  this  afternoon. 

MAMERE.  Delor  was  there ;  he  didn't  tell  me 
nothing. 

HAROLD.     I  guess  not.      [The  men  laugh.] 

LUCILLE.  I  don't  know  either.  What  hap 
pened  ? 

PAPERE.     Bad  enough,  I  think. 

DEROCHIE.     You're  right. 

HAROLD.     Let  Joseph  tell  it. 

RAMEAU.  Well,  when  we  was  getting  ready  for 
the  parade,  there  was  a  lot  of  talk  on  whether 
we  should  go  past  the  boss's  house. 

DEROCHIE.     Mistake,  mistake. 

[  33  ] 


THE    HARD    HEART 

RAMEAU.  You're  crazy!  But  wait  till  we  see 
how  it  comes  out. 

LUCILLE.     Go  on. 

RAMEAU.  Well,  there  was  a  lot  of  talk,  but  we 
agreed  to  do  it.  I  said :  "  What  good  is  a  parade 
of  strikers  on  Labor  Day  if  their  boss  won't  see 
them?"  Well,  no  sooner  had  we  come  near  his 
house,  than  —  bam  !  —  somebody  lets  drive  a  stone 
that  crashes  through  a  window.  The  big  one  over 
the  door.  But  the  funny  thing  is,  who  should  I  see 
looking  out,  that  minute,  from  the  little  window 
down  below  but  old  McDonald  himself. 

MAMERE  [to  her  husband]  Did  you  know 
this? 

PAPERE.  I  just  found  out.  But  I  had  a 
feeling. 

LUCILLE.     Who  threw  the  stone? 

HAROLD.     That's  the  funniest  part  of  it. 

RAMEAU.     Delor. 

[Mamere  drops  the  glass  that  she  is  holding.] 

PAPERE    [to  Derochie]    She  never  does  that. 

DEROCHIE.  He  was  walking  beside  me;  I  saw 
him  chuck  it  all  on  a  sudden. 

PAPERE.     I  don'  like  the  way  he  acts. 

HAROLD.     Darn  smart  trick,  I  think. 

DEROCHIE.     May  start  —  lot  —  trouble. 

RAMEAU.  But  it's  what  old  McDonald  needed ; 
shows  we  ain't  scared  of  him.  And  Delor's  the 
only  one  to  care  enough  to  take  the  chance. 

LUCILLE.  You  think  he  did  it  for  the  whole 
bunch,  then? 

RAMEAU.     Why,   sure. 

[  34  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

DEROCHIE.  Of  course  he  thought  it  was  the 
right  thing,  but  I  don't  know. 

HAROLD.  It's  made  everybody  talk  about  him, 
anyway. 

MAMERE.  He  used  to  throw  a  lot  of  stone, 
when  he  was  a  boy  —  just  fcr  fun 

RAMEAU.  And  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I 
bet  he's  gone  up  there  tonight,  to  settle  the  whole 
thing. 

MAMERE.      Ah,  you  think  so? 

HAROLD.     You  ought  to  know. 

MAMERE.  Wait  until  I'm  telling  .  .  .  Come 
on,  Lucille  —  sing ! 

LUCILLE.     I  can't  tonight ;  my  throat's  caught. 

PAPERE.      She  can't  sing  without  Delor. 

LUCILLE.     I  don't  want  to  without  him. 

MAMERE.     Maybe  somebody  can  recite,  eh? 

RAMEAU.     Derochie. 

VICTOR.     Pa,  you  can. 

[His  father,  without -a  word,  gets  him  by  the 
arm,  and  pulls  him  out  of  sight.] 

PAPERE   [to  Derochie]   Here's  a  chair. 

[Derochie  climbs  upon  it,  and,  after  clearing 
his  throat,  begins  to  recite:] 

"  Venez  ici,  mon  cher  ami,  and  sit  down  by  me  so, 
And   I   will   tell   you   story   of   long   time   long 
ago     ... 

[He  is  lost.] 

And  I  will  tell  you  story  of  long  time  long  ago." 

Oh,  I  can't  do*  it  like  Delor. 

[He  gets  down  in  a  silence.] 

VICTOR.     Pa,  can  I  have  a  piece  of  cake? 

[  35  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

RAMEAU  [with  astonishing  fierceness,  but  he  is 
speaking  in  phrases]  I'll  fix  you  if  you  don't 
shut  up ! 

MAMERE.     Ah,  give  the  poor  child  some  cake! 

[She  hands  him  a  piece,  and  is  about  to  serve 
the  others,  but  hesitates.] 

I  guess  we  wait  until  Delor  gets  back. 

HAROLD  [who  is  hungry]  It  may  be  a  long 
wait. 

PAPERE  [to  Derochie]  He  talk  too  much  to 
suit  me. 

[A  pause.] 

LUCILLE.     The  Laflures  are  laying  out. 

PAPERE.     I  know  about  it. 

LUCILLE.  They  must  have  a  hundred  candles 
there. 

HAROLD.  I  wonder  why  they  have  candles. 
[Everybody  laughs.] 

LUCILLE.     They  always  have  candles. 

HAROLD.     But  why? 

PAPERE.     Who  knows? 

HAROLD.  Maybe  it's  to  keep  the  Old  Boy 
away.  [Everybody  laughs,  Harold  the  loudest.] 

MAMERE.  Candles  are  to  light  the  soul  to 
purgatory,  eh? 

HAROLD.  Then  if  there  wasn't  no  candles,  the 
soul  wouldn't  have  to  go  to  purgatory.  [Every 
body  laughs,  Harold  the  loudest.] 

HAROLD.  No,  it  could  go  straight  to  hell. 
[Harold  laughs  alone.  A  pause.] 

PAPERE  [to  Derochie]  I  think  he  talk  too  much. 

VICTOR.     Mamere,  ain't  you  going  to  stand  up? 

[  36  ] 


THE    HARD    HEART 

RAMEAU.     When  I  get  you  home    .    .    .  ! 

MAMERE.  Maybe  some  of  the  men  like  to 
dance? 

HAROLD.      No,  no.     You  and  Lucille. 

DEROCHIE.  I'll  play  the  machine.  [He  brings 
out  a  harmonica.] 

LUCILLE.     I'm  tired  tonight. 

MAMERE.     Come  on,  girl. 

[While  Derochie  plays,  the  women  jig  against 
each  other,  stamping  and  clapping,  full  of  con 
flict.  The  others  watch  for  a  time.] 

HAROLD.  They  say  McDonald  will  break  this 
strike  if  he  spends  his  last  dollar. 

RAMEAU.      Sure  —  he  wants  to  crush  us. 

[Lucille' s  attention  is  drawn  to  the  talk;  her 
dancing  grows  haphazard,  and  Ma  mere's  trium 
phant.] 

PAPERE.  Is  it  true  that  he  keeps  guards  at 
his  house  day  and  night? 

RAMEAU.     Every  man  has  a  big  gun. 

PAPERE.     Is  that  so? 

RAMEAU.     And  they  like  to  use  'em,  too. 

LUCILLE  [clutching  at  her  heart]  What  is 
that  ?  I  hear  something.  I  hear  you  —  oh, 
Delor ! 

[She  runs  to  the  door,  the  others  following. 
When  it  is  opened,  a  faint  sound  of  singing 
enters.] 

RAMEAU.     There  ain't  nothing. 

PAPERE.     It  is  jus'  singing  across  the  street. 

MAMERE.     They  are  dancing  La  Galere.- 
PAPERE.     That's    a    New   Year's    dance.     It's 


[  37  ] 


THE    HARD    HEART 

funny  how  the  old  celebrations  have  been  changed 
to  Labor  Day.  Now  it's  like  that  is  the  greatest 
holiday  of  all. 

MAMERE.  It's  a  fete-day ;  let's  dance  La 
Galere. 

LUCILLE.     I  can't  go  on. 

MAMERE.  Yes  you  can,  while  we're  waiting. 
Drag  back  the  chairs,  Joseph. 

[While  the  men  clear  the  room,  Lucille  whispers 
to  Pa  per  e.] 

PAPERE.     Victor,  come  here. 

[He  whispers  vehemently  to  the  child.} 

VICTOR  [standing  still  and  sniveling}  I  don't 
want  to.  .  .  .  Pa ! 

RAMEAU.     You  do  as  he  says. 

PAPERE.     What's  the  matter? 

VICTOR.     I'm  —  scared. 

PAPERE.     Bah ! 

VICTOR.     Why  don't  you  go? 

PAPERE.     Will  I  get  that  stick? 

VICTOR  [going]  I  don't  want  to  —  I  don't  want 
to. 

MAMERE.     Come  on,  we're  ready. 

PAPERE.     I'll  sit  a  while. 

LUCILLE.     I've  got  a  hurt  here. 

MAMERE.  Come  on,  come  on  —  everybody, 
everybody ! 

[She  catches  Lucille  by  the  arm;  Harold  does 
the  same  with  Flair y;  and  all  link  hands  and  -form 
a  circle  around  Mamere.] 

ALL.     L'un  a  1'autre  donne  une  main. 

C  38  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

MAMERE.  (Dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme 
il  faut.) 

ALL.     Et  reste  heureux  jusqu'  a  la  fin. 

MAMERE.  (Dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme 
il  faut.) 

[When  they  have  finished  circling,  they  -follow 
Ma  mere  in  the  other  steps.] 

ALL  [pointing  their  toes]  Un  pied,  deux  pieds, 
un  pied,  deux  pieds  —  dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere 
comme  il  faut. 

[Hopping  up  and  down.] 

Une  jambe,  deux  jambes,  un  jambe,  deux 
jambes  —  dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme  il 
faut. 

[O?i  their  knees,  except  Mamere,  who  remains 
standing  throughout.] 

Un  genou,  deux  genoux,  un  genou,  deux  genoux 

—  dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme  il  faut. 
[Little  Victor  r centers,  walling;  Paper e  drops 

out  and  goes  to  him.] 
VICTOR.     Pa ! 

RAMEAU.      Some  day  I'll  teach  you ! 
MAMERE.     Come  on,  come  on! 
[The  others  begin  half-heartedly.] 
Un  genou,  deux  genoux,  un  genou,  deux  genoux 

—  dansez  — 

PAPERE.  He  saw  something;  he  ran  into  some 
thing  in  the  dark. 

MAMERE.     Ah,  he  don'  know  what  he's  doing! 
PAPERE.     What's  this?     Look  here! 
RAMEAU.     Leaves ! 
PAPERE.     From  your  little  lemon  tree. 

[  39  ] 


THE    HARD    HEART 

[They  all  laugh  with  relief.] 

HAROLD.  That's  funny!  Why  look,  Mamere 
is  even  crying. 

MAMERE.     It's  a  lie! 

HAROLD.     Eh !     I  didn't  mean  to  — 

RAMEAU.     Ain't  we  going  to  finish  the  dance? 

MAMERE.  Sure,  let's  finish  the  dance.  Come 
on,  come  on ! 

LUCILLE.     I  can't. 

[But  they  make  her  join,  and  begin  again,  with 
increased  hilarity.  Little  Victor  perches  on  a 
chair  like  a  brooding  old  man.] 

ALL  [on  their  knees  and  slapping  the  floor] 
Une  main,  deux  mains,  une  main,  deux  mains  — 
dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme  il  faut. 

[Touching  their  elbows  to  the  .floor] 

Un  coude,  deux  coudes,  un  coude,  deux  coudes 

—  dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme  il  faut. 
[Their  shoulders] 

Une  epaule,  deux  epaux,  une  epaule,  deux  epaux 

—  dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme  il  faut. 
LUCILLE   [dropping  out]  I  can't.     It's  awful! 
MAMERE.     Come  on ! 

ALL.  Une  oreille,  deux  oreilles,  une  oreille, 
deux  oreilles  —  dansez  la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme 
il  faut. 

[With  their  foreheads  on  the  floor,  while  Ma- 
mere  stands  very  still  and  straight,  leading  with 
a  slight  gesture] 

Un  oeil,  deux  yeux,  un  oeil,  deux  yeux  —  dansez 
la  Galere,  la  Galere  comme  il  faut!  CABICHE ! 

[   40  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

[The  men  turn  somersaults.  A  knock  at  the 
door.  Silence.'] 

LITTLE  VICTOR  [thin  and  clear]  I  saw  some 
thing  coming  down  the  hill,  too. 

[Silence.  The  door  is  opened  slowly,  and  the 
faint  sou  fid  of  singing  enters.  A  man's  back 
appears.] 

GUARD  [turning  his  head]  We've  got  your  boy 
here. 

LUCILLE  [clutching  at  her  heart~\  Oh,  I  knew  it ! 

PAPERE  [standing  up  a  fid  pointing,  greatly] 
Stop  that  music ! 

[Derochie  takes  him  by  the  arm.] 

Eh? 

[He  is  made  to  sit  down.  The  guards  place 
Delor's  stretcher  between  two  chairs,  which  Harold 
and  Ramtau  set  for  them.  Mamere  leans  against 
the  wall.] 

GUARD.  We  don't  know  nothing  about  this. 
I  guess  he  was  shot  some  way.  McDonald  told 
us  to  bring  the  body  here. 

[The  guards  go.     Lucille  clings  to  the  body.] 

DEROCHIE  [pointing  to  Mamere]  She  is  still 
humming.  [They  stare  at  her.] 

PAPERE.  He  can't  do  this  to  me.  I'll  show 
him.  He  can't  treat  me  like  this. 

MAMERE.     Your  gun  is  broken ;  I  remember. 

PAPERE.     I'll  show  him. 

DEROCHIE.  I  guess  we  owe  this  to  McDonald 
all  right. 

HAROLD.     He  thinks  he  can  do  anything. 


THE  HARD  HEART 

DEROCHIE.  We  must  do  something  ourselves 
now. 

HAROLD.     Count   on   me. 

RAMEAU  [breaking  forth]  Let  me  tell  you  one 
thing :  I'm  going  to  take  this  up  with  him  myself ; 
this  is  between  him  and  me  from  now  on. 

[A  knock,  and  the  door  opens.] 

HAROLD.     McDonald ! 

[The  men  start  back  in  uncomfortable  sur 
prise.] 

MCDONALD.     Where's  Flairy? 

[Derochie  brings  up  Papere.] 

PAPERE.  I  didn't  think  you'd  do  this  to  me,  Mr. 
McDonald.  Twelve  years  I  worked  in  your  ship 
yard,  and  I  didn't  think  you'd  do  this  to  me.  This 
ain't  the  right  way  to  treat  me,  Mr.  McDonald. 
And  I'll  get  even.  I'll  show  you.  .  .  . 

McDoNALD.1  Where's  the  boy's  mother?  [To 
Mamere  when  they  point  her  out]  I  regret  this 
-  this  necessity.  It  wasn't  an  accident.  The  man 
deliberately  climbed  over  my  iron  fence,  and  he 
was  shot  while  prowling  round  my  house,  in  open 
defiance  of  the  law  and  my  signs.  There  is  no 
doubt  of  his  intention,  either.  He  is  the  same 
man  who  threw  —  who  was  seen  to  throw  —  the 
stone  this  afternoon  that  broke  my  window.  I 
understand  he's  always  been  a  wild  boy.  You 
know  the  world  hasn't  any  use  for  that  sort.  So 
it's  a  clear  case  of  an  unfortunate  necessity  and  a 
malicious  trespasser.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  his 
parent ;  but  I  know  I  acted  in  the  right. 

[   42   ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

RAMEAU.  If  I  didn't  have  a  family  on  me,  I'd 
show  you  who  was  sorry ! 

McDoxALD.  You're  the  man  that  does  all  the 
talking. 

DEROCHIE.  But  I've  been  quiet  in  this  strike; 
and  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  McDonald  —  and  you  tell 
him  —  that  if  I  ever  find  the  man  who  fired  this 
shot,  I'll  make  it  up  to  him,  all  right. 

MAMERE.  What  for?  I  can  see  how  it  was. 
He  has  a  job,  that's  all.  .  .  .  Mr.  McDonald,  it 
is  a  fete-day  with  us.  You  see  we  have  cake  and 
wine  over  there.  We  was  saving  it  until  my  son 
came  back ;  but  now  we  don'  want  to  save  it  any 
more.  Everybody  that  come  in  the  house,  he  is 
a  ...  a  guest.  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  wine, 
Mr.  McDonald? 

[She  extends  the  glass,  but  Rcnneau  takes  it 
from  her  hand.] 

RAMEAU.     You  must  be*  crazy  ! 

MAMERE.     No,  I  am  right ;  it  is  a  fete-day. 

MCDONALD  [briskly]  Xo,  thanks,  Mrs.  Flairy; 
I  can't  stop.  As  I  say,  I  regret  this  had  to  occur. 

HAROLD  [largely]  Regret?  you'll  regret  it,  I'd 
say.  This  means  the  strike'll  never  end. 

DEROCHIE.     We'll  have  to  go  through  now. 

RAMEAU.     That  boy  showed  you  up. 

HAROLD.     He'll  be  a  regular  martyr. 

LUCILLE.  What  have  I  found?  Tight  in  his 
hand. 

PAPERE.     Just  some  green  apples. 

MAMERE.     When  he  was  small,  we  looked  for 

[  43  ] 


THE    HARD    HEART 

them  together.  I  used  to  hold  him  on  my 
shoulder.  He  was  un  blanc  bebe. 

McDoNALD.     I'll  go  now. 

LUCILLE.     Mr.  McDonald ! 

McDoNALD.     Yes. 

LUCILLE.  When  he  was  —  when  you  found  him 
—  didn't  he  say  something? 

McDoNALD  [embarrassed]  No.  Well,  I  think 
something  like  "  mamere." 

MAMERE  AND  LUCILLE.     Ah! 

McDoNALD.  Then  he  muttered  something 
meaningless,  probably  unsettled  a  little  —  some 
thing  about  candles  —  he  "didn't  want  candles." 

MAMERE   [laugh*  ] . 

McDoNALD  [briskly]  Just  a  whim,  I  guess. 

[He  goes.'] 

VICTOR.     Pa,  what's  funny? 

RAMEAU   [not  harshly]   Don't  laugh. 

[Paper e  goes  out.] 

DEROCHIE.     I  don't  understand  her. 

HAROLD.      She  kept  right  on  humming. 

RAMEAU.      She  offered  wine  to  him. 

HAROLD.     And  she  laughed,  too. 

DEROCHIE.     I   don't   understand   it. 

RAMEAU.  All  the  time  she  spoiled  him ; 
but- 

LUCILLE  [looking  up]  She  has  the  hard  heart. 

[Papere  returns  with  tall  candles.  Mamere, 
turning  with  cake  in  her  hand,  makes  an  opposing 
gesture.] 

LUCILLE.      She  don't  want  candles  even. 

[   44  ] 


THE  HARD  HEART 

DEROCHIE.  Ah,  she  is  herself,  and  can't 
change.  Let's  go. 

MAMERE.  See,  I  have  the  cake  and  wine  all 
ready.  You  must  take  some.  It  is  a  fete-day. 

LUCILLE.     No ;  we  couldn't  swallow. 

[She  puts  her  cake  and  wine  on  a  stool,  and 
sets  the  stool  by  the  body.  The  men  go  out  one 
by  one.  Paper e  is  lighting  the  tall  candles,  and 
placing  them  about  the  body.] 

LUCILLE.     I  will  stay  with  him. 

MAMERE.  The  chairs  are  too  hard  to  stay  all 
night . 

LUCILLE.     I'll  sit  on  the  floor! 

MAMERE.     You  better  go. 

LUCILLE.     It's  my  last  chance. 

MAMERE.     It  was  me  he  spoke  of ! 

LUCILLE.     You  never  felt  like  I  did. 

MAMERE.     Get  out. 

[Lucille  goes.  Papere  walks  about  the  room 
mumbling,  and  his  wife  stands  up  to  meet  him,  as 
if  expecting  to  receive  or  give  some  sort  of  con 
solation.] 

PAPERE.     Why  do  you  get  in  my  way? 

[She  steps  aside  and  watches,  as  he  goes  into 
the  parlor.] 

This  is  not  the  way  to  treat  me.  I  will  go  up 
tomorrow  and  see  him.  I  will  write  him  a  letter. 

MAMERE  [quietly  but  with  accent,  kneeling  by 
the  boy]  "  Almighty  and  most  merciful  creator, 
who,  to  refresh  thy  thirsting  people  in  the  desert, 
didst  command  streams  of  water  to  flow  from  the 
hard  rock;  touch,  we  beseech  Thee,  our  stony 


THE    HARD    HEART 

hearts  .  .  .  and  give  us  tears  of  perfect  com 
punction  ..." 

[Breaking  off,  she  rises  and  pours  the  wine, 
slowly,  to  the  last  drop,  on  the  floor.  She 
crumbles  the  cake  between  her  fingers,  and  throws 
it  out  upon  the  porch.] 

Pour  les  petits  oiseaux! 

[Across  the  street  they  are  still  dancing  and 
the  sound:  of  it  is  faintly  audible.] 

PAPERE  [outside]  Ah,  you  are  still  humming! 
Don'  you  dance  any  more. 

[Closing  the  door,  she  nods  no,  no,  710.] 

And  don'  go  near  the  candles.  Who  can  tell 
what  they  stand  for?  [Slight  pause.]  All  his 
life  you  spoiled  him. 

MAMERE  [kneeling  again]  "  And  hear  our  sup 
plication  for  this  soul,  that  on  earth  hath  sinned 
of  pride  and  wilfulness,  and  died ;  and  goeth  now 
into  a  valley  of  the  shadow,  and  alone  into  a  place 
of  darkness." 

[She  pinches  out  the  candles  one  by  one.  When 
it  is  wholly  dark,  she  gives  a  sob,  and  falls  upon 
the  boy's  face.] 


CURTAIN 


C  46  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

BY 

LOUISE  WHITEFIELD  BRAY 


CHARACTERS 

CAPTAIN  JOHN  HOMER  of  the  Bark  "  Mary  L." 
JOHN,  his  son,  a  young  man  of  twenty-two. 
BENJAMIN,  his  youngest  son,  a  boy  of  fourteen. 
Mis'  MERCY,  his  wife. 
HANNAH  MATTHEWS,  engaged  to  John. 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  December  17  and 
18,  1920.  Copyright  1921,  by  Louise  Whitefield  Bray.  Per 
mission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any 
kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Har 
vard  College,  Cambridge,  Mass.  Moving  Pictures  rights 
reserved. 


MIS'    MERCY 

PLACE:  the  Cape  Cod  of  two  generations  ago, 
when  the  men,  almost  without  exception,  unless 
crippled  or  blind,  went  to  sea.  Some  were  whalers, 
some  deep-sea  -fishermen,  some  merchant  mariners 
to  foreign  ports.  The  tide  of  immigration  was 
only  just  beginning  to  turn  from  the  sea  to  the 
mainland,  a  tide  now  full,  for  when  whaling  ceased 
altogether,  and  the  merchant  vessel  yielded  to  the 
swifter  steamer,  the  men  of  the  Cape  turned  to 
the  mainland  for  their  living.  The  sea  had  fos 
tered  the  adventurous  in  them,  —  so  that  they 
could  not  be  content  on  their  narrow  stretch  of 
farm  country. 

SCENE:  The  play  takes  place  in  the  period  of 
the  still  glorious  merchant  marine,  that  is,  in  the 
early  '70's.  Mis9  Mercy  (it  was  the  Cape  custom 
to  attach  any  title  to  the  first  name,  if  there  were, 
as  often,  many  families  with  the  same  surname,) 
is  making  pies  and  cake  at  a  table  in  an  old-fash 
ioned  kitchen  so  clean,  sunshiny,  and  comfortable 
you  wish  to  live  in  it.  The  table  by  which  Mercy 
is  standing  is  pulled  out  into  the  mid'dU  of  the 
room,  so  that  her  back  is  toward  the  outer  door, 
which  opens  directly  into  the  kitchen.  Newly  made 
apple  pies  are  cooling  on  another  table  or  on 

[  49  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

shelves.  A  closet  of  Chinese  dishes  stands  against 
the  wall.  Pictures  of  barks  and  barkentines  under 
full  sail  suggest  that  the  Homers  are  sailors.  The 
comfortable  old  chairs  have  tidies  made  of  strips 
of  Japanese  embroidery  and  home  crocheting. 
Mis'"  Mercy  is  singing  "  Rock  of  Ages  "  as  she 
works.  She  always  talks  quietly  and  firmly. 

Hannah  Matthews  lifts  the  latch  of  the  door 
and  runs  in,  leaving  the  door  wide  open.  Crimson 
ramblers  frame  the  doorways  and  windows.  Far 
out  one  sees  the  deep  blue  of  the  sea,  such  as  comes 
only  under  a  clear  summer  sky.  Evidently  the 
house  is  on  a  hill.  Hannah  is  simply  a  very  sweet 
young  girl  whose  possibilities  of  fineness  the  years 
may  develop.  She  looks  round  with  an  expression 
of  keen  disappointment. 

HANNAH.     They  haven't  come,  Mis'  Mercy! 

MERCY  [putting  flour  and  milk  alternately  into 
her  cake  mixture]  Not  yet,  Hannah.  Trains 
never  get  this  far  down  the  Cape  the  minute 
they're  due. 

HANNAH  [dropping  her  cashmere  shawl  across 
a  chair~\  I  was  sure  I'd  made  a  mistake  in  the 
time.  I  moved  all  the  clocks  in  the  house  to  match 
the  fastest  and  still  the  time  dragged. 

MERCY  [smiling']  You  must  remember,  child, 
that  John  and  his  father  only  got  to  New  York 
three  day  ago  and  they  had  t'  unload  and  see 
the  owners  and  come  all  that  slow  way  here.  But 
they  wron't  be  long  now. 

HANNAH.     Even   that   long  is   too   long,   Mis' 

[  50  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

Mercy,  when  I've  waited  two  years  to   see  John. 

MERCY  [understanding  her  excitement}  Bless 
you,  child,  it  used  to  be  three  or  five,  more  often 
than  not,  for  a  sailor's  wife  or  lass.  Trv  beatin' 
whites,  Hannah.  That'll  help  you  to  wait.  If 
you'll  notice,  I've  done  a  sight  of  cookin'  this  very 
mornin'. 

[Hannah  sits  down  by  the  table  absent-minded 
ly  with  a  bowl  of  yolK-s  of  eggs  instead  of  whites. 
She  beats  assiduously,  when  she  does  not  forget! 
Mercy  continues  her  cake-making.} 

MERCY.  When  they  do  come,  Ben'll  whisk  'em 
up  here  in  a  jiffy  with  the  new  ponies.  I  heard 
him  before  daylight  creakin'  downstairs  to  curry 
'em.  The  boy's  so  proud  of  his  corn  and  his 
ponies.  I  hope  his  father  won't  be  too  excited  to 
notice  'em.  John,  I  know,  won't  see  a  thing  till 
he  sees  you.  [She  looks  over  at  Hannah.}  And 
he'll  see  somebody  lookin'  mighty  nice  this 
mornin'. 

HAXXAH  [glowing}  Oh,  do  you  think  so, 
Mother  Mercy?  I  get  so  frightened  sometimes, 
for  fear  John  might  find  another  girl  on  one  of  his 
trips  that  he'd  like  better  than  anyone  could  like 
me.  There  might  be  nicer  English  girls  in  Cal 
cutta  or  Bombay,  or  even  a  Chinese  lady,  — 
like  the  one  the  captain  in  Hyannisport  brought 
home. 

MERCY.  Sailors'  womenfolks  always  have  that 
"  might  "  to  consider,  'less  there's  a  pretty  strong 
anchor  at  home.  I  think  you'll  hold  John. 

HAXXAH.     Well,  I'd  feel  a  lot  safer  if  my  nose 

[  51  ] 


MIS'   MERCY 

didn't  freckle  so  fast  in  the  summer  time  just  when 
he's  coming  home. 

MERCY  [smiling]  Now  the  whites.  [Hannah 
passes  her  the  bowl  of  yellow  -froth.] 

MERCY.  Colorblind,  Hannah?  [Hannah, 
realizing  for  the  first  time  what  she  has  done, 
seizes  the  other  bowl  and  beats  briskly.] 

HANNAH.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry.  I'll  have  these 
ready  in  a  jiffy. 

MERCY  [going  into  the  pantry  for  a  tin  for  her 
cake]  Don't  hurry,  child.  There's  plenty  of  time. 
You're  helpin'  me  wait  too,  you  know.  I  don't 
have  a  husband  and  son  comin'  home  from  sea 
every  day  in  the  week,  and  it's  kinder  slow  waitin'. 

HANNAH    [breathless   from   beating]    Um  —  m 

- 1  can't  think  of  anything  but  how  I  wish  he 

would   come.      There!      [She  hands   the  bowl   to 

Mercy  and  runs   to   the  door  to  look  down  the 

road  once  more.] 

HANNAH.     O   come  —  come  —  come,   John  ! 

[Mercy  has  started  to  beat  in  the  whites. 
Now,  turning  amused  eyes  to  follow  Hannah,  she 
sees  for  the  first  time  that  the  door  is  open.] 

MERCY.      Close  the  door,  Hannah. 

HANNAH  [looking  back  in  surprise]  But  you'll 
shut  out  the  sea.  It's  glorious  today.  Just  look, 
it  fairly  smiles  in  the  sunlight. 

MERCY.  Close  the  door,  Hannah.  I  don't 
want  to  see  her  smile.  She  always  smiles  when 
she's  [she  hesitates  for  the  word]  —  triumphant. 
She  smiled  the  day  I  heard  she  had  drowned 
David  off  the  coast  of  Africa. 

[  52  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

HANNAH  [puzzled]  Why  do  you  speak  like 
that  of  the  sea  —  as  if  she  was  a  person? 

MERCY  [looking  out  of  the  window  and  speak 
ing  bitterly]  Do  I?  I  guess  it's  'cause  I  get  to 
think  of  her  that  way,  when  I'm  here  alone  on  the 
hill  so  much,  and  she's  out  there,  taunting  me, 
'cause  she  can  keep  my  men  for  years,  and  I  get 
'em  back  just  a  few  weeks  out  of  a  lifetime.  [She 
notices  Hannah's  troubled  face.]  Hannah,  dar 
ling,  I've  no  right  to  speak  so,  with  your  weddin' 
day  so  near.  Forget  what  I've  said.  Think  — 
you'll  have  John  six  whole  weeks ! 

HANNAH  [brightening]  No,  seven,  Mis'  Mercv. 
Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you!  I  had  a  telegram  from 
John.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  owners  so  good  as 
ours?  They  gave  him  a  whole  extra  week  when 
they  heard  he  was  goin'  to  be  married. 

MERCY.  A  week!  And  them  always  so  anx 
ious  to  send  a  ship  tradin'  again  when  it's  hardlv 
cast  anchor !  Did  he  tell  where  they're  bound  for 
next  ? 

HANNAH  [going  to  the  window]  No,  nothing 
about  that. 

MERCY.  No  words  to  waste  on  that  subject. 
[She  smiles.]  After  all,  it  may  be  only  another 
two-year  voyage.  John's  father's  first  trip  after 
we  was  married  was  five  years.  David  wore  little 
trousers  before  his  father  ever  saw  him. 

HANNAH  [only  half-hearing,  because  she  is 
watching  the  road  and  thinking]  I  wonder  if  John 
has  kept  that  curl  on  his  forehead. 

MERCY  [beating  in  the  whites]  Not  if  he  could 

[  53  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

help  it.  He  was  always  trying  to  brush  it  away 
with  my  hairbrush  and  water. 

HANNAH.  What  if  he's  grown  a  beard,  like 
most  sailors  !  I  couldn't  like  him  with  a  beard ! 

MERCY  [her  tones  as  sure  as  if  she  were  re 
citing  the  multiplication  table}  I  think  you'll  find 
it  won't  matter,  Hannah,  whether  he's  grown  a 
beard  or  been  tattooed  all  over.  He'll  be  just  the 
same  John. 

[Mercy  goes  to  the  oven  to  test  the  tempera 
ture.  Hannah  watches  her  from  near  the  window, 
and  then,  like  a  released  explosive,  goes  over  and 
shakes  her.} 

HANNAH.  How  can  you  go  on  working, 
Mother  Mercy,  as  if  John  and  the  Cap'n  came 
home  every  day?  Why,  you're  not  excited  a  bit. 
I'd  almost  think  you  aren't  glad  they  are  coming. 

[Mercy  does  not  answer.  Hannah  looks  at  her 
more  closely.} 

HANNAH.     You  —  aren't  —  glad ! 

MERCY  [breaking  free}  I  am  glad,  Hannah,  but 
it  tears  me  so  to  have  them  go.  Even  w^hile 
they're  comin',  I  can't  forget  they  have  to  go,  and 
how  long  they  are  away. 

[On  Hannah's  face  dawns  slightly  the  realiza 
tion  of  what  her  life  will  mean  as  the  wife  of  a 
sailor.} 

HANNAH.  Is  it  always  this  way?  Don't  we 
ever  get  used  to  it? 

MERCY.  We  do,  Hannah.  We  have  to.  But 
it's  hardest  this  time  of  all  the  times.  They  may 

[  54  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

take  my  Benjamin.  Benjamin,  Hannah,  my 
baby. 

HANNAH  [softly  sympathetic]  They  may  not 
need  him  this  time. 

MERCY.  It's  now  or  not  at  all.  Another  trip 
will  make  him  too  old  to  start.  It's  Nature,  I 
suppose,  for  men  to  strike  out  for  themselves. 
But  on  the  Cape  we  give  up  our  men  so  utterly 
when  they  begin  to  go,  —  the  sea  or  the  town 
gets  all  we  have.  I've  given  the  sea  my  hus 
band  and  a  son  that  is  dead,  and  she  has  John.  I 
had  to  give  Reuben  up  to  the  town.  I  wanted  him 
so  on  the  farm,  but  he  wasn't  content  to  stay.  I 
let  him  go,  but  I  must  have  one,  just  one  of  my 
own.  [She  turns  sharply  to  Hannah.]  Hannah, 
when  you  get  to  be  my  age,  you've  almost  learned 
to  quit  fight  in'  Nature,  but  I'll  fight  to  the  very 
end  to  keep  Ben. 

HANNAH  [trying  to  turn  Mercy  gently  to  a 
chair]  Sit  down  a  minute  and  let  me  finish  your 
work.  I  guess  you're  tired. 

MERCY  [patting  the  hand  on  her  shoulder]  I'm 
not  tired.  My  thoughts  seem  strange  to  you, 
that's  all.  Run,  dear,  and  look  down  the  hill. 

HANNAH  [in  the  doorway,  pushes  aside  the 
roses  to  see  more  clearly]  They're  coming!  Com 
ing  !  Coming ! 

[Mercy  runs  to  the  door] 

MERCY.  Isn't  Ben  the  proud  lad !  Just  look 
at  him  handle  those  ponies !  —  And  my  cake  not 
in !  Flour  the  tin.  Hannah,  and  hold  it  while  I 
pour. 

[  55  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

[M\ercy  gives  a  final  beating  to  the  cake  as 
Hannah  flours  the  tin.  Hannah,  holding  the  tin 
while  Mercy  pours  in  the  mixture,  keeps  her  eye* 
on  the  door.  As  Mercy  takes  the  tin,  Hannah 
seizes  her  shawl  from  the  back  of  the  chair. ] 

HANNAH  [in  sudden  panic'}  I  think — I  mustn't 
stay.  They  —  they  might  need  me  at  home. 

[Hannah's  cheek  nestles  for  a  moment  on 
Mercy's  shoulder  as  Mercy  under  standingly 
draws  the  girl  to  her.] 

MERCY.  Frightened,  Hannah?  Run  down  to 
the  hollow,  then.  I'll  send  John  to  you  there. 

[As  Hannah  goes  out,  Mercy  hurries  to  the4 
oven  with  her  cake  and  then  toward  the  door  to 
meet  her  husband  and  son.  They  enter  before 
she  reaches  it,  John  pushing  by  his  father  for  a 
hug  and  a  kiss  and  a  hasty  question.] 

JOHN.  Hello,  Mother.  [Quick  kiss]  Where's 
Hannah? 

MERCY.  In  the  hollow,  John.  [As  John  al 
most  stumbles  in  his  hasty  exit]  Don't  trip! 

[Mercy  turns  to  her  husband  with  a  smile  and 
a  quiet,  close  embrace.'} 

MERCY.     O  John,  my  dear  John! 

CAPT.  J.  That  young  rascal  thinks  he's 
gladder  to  see  a  slip  of  a  girl  than  I  am  to  see 
you ! 

MERCY.      Sailor's   tongue! 

CAPT.  J.  Let  me  look  at  you,  Mercy !  [He 
raises  her  head  and  holds  her  off,  her  chin  in  his 
two  hands.  He  seems  satisfied,  for  he  stoops  once 
more  and  kisses  her.  Then  he  stretches  his  arms. 

[  56  ] 


MIS'   MERCY 

Mercy  watches  him  happily.  Suddenly  his  right 
arm  seems  to  catch  and  he  rubs  it  with  the  other. 
Mercy  starts  toward  him.] 

MERCY  [quickly]  What's  the  matter,  John? 

CAPT.  J.  Just  my  arm.  It  got  broke  in  a 
gale  last  winter.  It's  all  right  now,  Mercy.  It 
kinder  ketches  once  in  a  while. 

MERCY  [anxiously]  You'll  have  Dr.  Robert 
look  at  it  while  you're  home,  —  now  won't  you? 

CAPT.  J.  Laws,  Mercy,  don't  you  go  worryin' 
about  that  arm.  I  didn't  want  you  should  know 
anything  about  it. 

MERCY.  O  John,  if  you  only  knew  how  much 
more  I  worry  because  you  don't  write  me  things 
than  I  would  if  you  did !  I  never  feel  sure  you 
and  John  are  safe  'less  I  have  you  right  here 
under  my  nose ! 

CAPT.  J.  You  ain't  goin'  to  scold  me  first 
thing,  are  ye,  Mercy? 

MERCY  [sjniling  at  him]  What  'ud  be  the  use? 
[She  pats  his  arm  and  goes  ba<;k  to  her  table. 
Capt.  John  stretches  cautiously  once  more.] 

CAPT.  J.  Gosh,  it's  good  to  be  here.  [Half- 
joking]  You  women  don't  realize  what  we  sailors 
give  up,  to  keep  you  and  your  children  in  a  com 
fortable,  cozy  old  farmhouse  like  this ! 

MERCY.  Our  children,  John.  Besides,  that's 
not  what  you  do  it  for.  You  sail  the  seas  be 
cause  you  want  to. 

CAPT.  J.  [looking  at  her  sharply]  What? 
[After  a  moment's  reflection]  Well,  perhaps 
you're  right. 

[  37  ] 


MIS'   MERCY 

[Mercy  piles  up  the  soiled  dishes  on  the  table. 
The  Captain  putters  about,  apparently  looking 
for  something.] 

MERCY.     What  do  you  want,  John? 

CAPT.  J.  My  old  coat.  The  one  you  said 
wouldn't  hold  together  if  twan't  for  the  dirt. 
You  hevn't  burnt  it  up  on  me,  hev  you? 

MERCY.  Certainly  not,  much  as  I  knew  I'd  a 
duty  to.  But  I  did  sew  the  buttons  on. 

CAPT.  J.     Mebbe  I  kin  wear  'em  off. 

MERCY.  It's  been  waitin'  a  month  in  the  cor 
ner  closet.  I'll  fetch  it.  And  your  slippers.  I 
suppose  you  like  them  better  because  one's  lost  a 
heel. 

[As  she  gets  the  coat  and  slippers,  Capt.  John 
takes  off  his  hoots  with  the  aid  of  a  homemade 
bootjack.] 

CAPT.  /.  [putting  on  the  coat  and  slippers 
Mercy  hands  him]  Sure  I  do.  What  do  you  sup 
pose  I  think  about,  night  after  night  in  my  cabin? 
I  think  about  settin'  right  here  in  this  old  chair 
with  my  coat  and  slippers  on  and  you  workin' 
away  at  that  table.  I  can  even  smell  apple  pie 
sometimes.  I  got  my  sniffer  so  well  trained  that  I 
just  have  to  think  apple  pie  and  I  kin  smell  it. 
Why,  I  kin  smell  it  right  now. 

MERCY.  Only  it  don't  happen  to  be  imaginary 
pie.  [She  sees  that  he  half  draws  out  his  pipe 
and  then  hurriedly  starts  to  put  it  back  again.] 
Take  out  your  pipe,  John.  You  won't  be  happy 
till  you  do,  and  land  knows,  I  want  you  happy, 

[  58] 


MIS'   MERCY 

no  matter  how  much  that  brand  of  tobacco  makes 
other  folks  suffer. 

[As  he  lights  his  pipe,  Mercy  picks  up  a  pan 
of  potatoes  from  the  table,  sits  down  opposite  the 
Captain,  and  starts  paring.  At  the  first  puff, 
Mercy  chokes,  but  smiles  valiantly,  as  the  Captain 
settles  back  with  a  sigh  of  contentment.] 

CAPT.  J.  There!  Now  I  wouldn't  change 
with  the  King  of  Hawaii !  Did  I  tell  ye,  Mercy, 
I  see  the  King  of  Hawaii? 

MERCY.     No ! 

CAPT.  J.  M  —  in.  We  stopped  with  a  lot  of 
glass  beads  and  got  fruit  enough  for  the  rest  of 
the  voyage.  Had  to  stay  two  days  in  the  harbor 
to  wait  for  a  wind. 

MERCY.     What  was  he  like?     A  cannibal? 

CAPT.  J.  Guess  not.  Leastwise,  we  didn't 
miss  any  men,  though  one  got  so  sot  on  a  prune- 
colored  damsel,  I  thought  we'd  have  to  lose  him 
or  take  her.  But  they  got  him  drunk  on  cocoanut 
juice  and  we  hove  him  aboard.  The  king  now, 
he  was  a  little  brown  runt  of  a  fellow  with  a  whisk 
broom  tied  round  his  waist.  He  gimme  a  whisk 
when  I  told  him  I  had  a  boy  the  size  of  one  of  his. 
D'ye  think  Ben'll  like  it? 

MERCY.  He'll  have  it  out  to  show  the  boys  at 
the  swimmin'  hole  this  very  day.  [Hurriedly,  to 
get  away  from  the  subject  of  Ben]  Cap'n  Asa's 
died  since  you  been  away. 

CAPT.  J.  Do  tell !  I  was  mate  under  him  — 
ten  —  eighteen  year  ago.  Leave  any  property? 

[59  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

MERCY.  All  he  had  —  to  Hannah.  She's  free 
now  to  come  up  here  with  me. 

CAPT.  J.     Know  when  the  weddin'll  be? 

MERCY.  Friday,  probably,  'less  Hannah  gets 
timid  again. 

CAPT.  J.  Today'd  be  none  too  soon  for  John. 
The  Mary  L.  would  'a  been  keel-side  up  by  now 
if  he'd  had  his  way.  He  wanted  to  crowd  on  every 
stitch  of  canvas  spite  of  a  reg'lar  gale.  And  in 
New  York  he'd  only  put  one  foot  inside  the  door 
at  the  owners',  he  was  so  anxious  to  get  out  again 
and  start  down  home.  Why,  he  didn't  even  want 
to  let  Ben  do  the  drivin'  up  from  the  station. 

MERCY.  I'm  glad  you  interfered.  Ben  has 
worked  so  hard  with  those  ponies.  He  was  proud 
to  show  'em  off.  He  gave  up  swimmin'  three  days 
this  week  to  put  extra  time  on  'em. 

CAPT.  J.  He's  a  pretty  likely  youngster. 
Goshamighty,  but  it's  good  to  see  him  lookin' 
husky.  Not  much  like  the  pindlin'  lad  I  left 
two  year  ago.  [Puffing  pipe]  There's  no  doubt 
about  it.  This  time  he's  strong  enough  to  come 
with  me.  And  as  luck  will  have  it,  I've  got  just 
the  place  for  him.  The  owners  want  my  cabin  boy 
for  the  coastin'  service. 

MERCY  [the  muscles  in  her  face  tightening  for 
the  struggle  ahead]  John !  He  ain't  pindlin'  now, 
but  he's  not  been  strong  long.  Only  last  Decem 
ber,  we  thought  for  two  days  he'd  have  pneu 
monia.  But  for  Dr.  Robert  he  would  have.  It 
was  five  weeks  before  he  could  go  back  to  school. 

[  60] 


MIS'    MERCY 

There  are  days  now  when  he's  not  as  excited  as  he 
is  today,  that  he's  pale  and  worn  before  the  morn 
ing's  half  over. 

CAPT.  J.  [puffing  decisively]  Sea's  the  place 
for  him  then.  Toughen  his  lungs. 

MERCY.  Toughen  his  soul,  you  mean.  He's 
only  a  boy,  —  more  a  boy  than  most  boys  of  his 
age.  You  know  what  your  men  are  like.  Portu 
guese  Joe  can  hardly  keep  a  decent  tongue  even 
before  his  captain's  wife. 

CAPT.  J.  Pshaw,  Mercy,  what  he  hears  won't 
hurt  him.  You're  too  pernickitv.  He  needs 
knockin'  about  a  bit  to  make  a  man  of  him 
and  the  sea's  the  place  to  do  it.  He's  had  too 
easy  a  way  with  you  slavin'  your  life  out  for 
him. 

MERCY.  I've  not  hurt  my  boy.  John.  I've 
been  firm  when  my  very  flesh  ached  to  mother  him. 
He's  too  sweet  and  wholesome  for  your  men  to 
harden. 

CAPT.  J.  [rising  to  the  defence  of  his  ship~\ 
What  kind  of  a  ship  do  you  think  I've  got?  It's 
not  worse  than  other  men's. 

MERCY.  They're  all  alike.  They're  no  place 
for  a  boy  of  fourteen. 

CAPT.  J.  What  are  you  talkin'  about?  I 
went  to  sea  myself  when  I  was  twelve.  I  took 
David  at  fourteen. 

MERCY.  You  took  David  at  fourteen  and  John 
after  him  at  fifteen,  and  the  town  took  Reuben. 
And  you?  What  have  I  had  of  my  husband? 
We've  been  married  twenty-eight  years  and  out  of 

[  61  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

them  only  three  years  have  I  had  you,  all  told. 
Six  weeks,  perhaps,  out  of  every  two  years  or 
three  years  or  four  you  come  here.  You're  not 
even  the  man  that  I  married.  Your  face,  your 
voice,  your  very  thoughts  are  not  the  same.  The 
sea  knows  you  better  than  I  do.  She's  had  you  for 
twenty-five  years  and  I  only  three,  and  yet  you 
ask  me  to  give  her  beside,  the  children  that  are 
mine,  —  mine  much  more  than  they're  yours.  I've 
lived  for  them.  And  you  come  and  say  —  now  I'll 
take  this  one  and  that  one  —  one  by  one  the  sea 
or  the  town  gets  them.  Leave  me  my  Benjamin. 
Let  me  have  him  just  a  little  while  longer. 

CAPT.  J.  [Jiis  pipe  falling  neglected  on  the 
table]  Why  —  why  —  Mercy,  I  never  knew  you 
felt  like  this.  What  makes  you  talk  so  queer 
about  the  sea  —  like  she  was  human?  Now  look 
here,  we've  got  to  be  sensible  about  this  thing. 
You'll  miss  Ben,  but  you'll  have  Hannah. 
[Mercy  startles  him  still  more  by  a  little  ironical 
laugh]  Of  course  it's  hard  for  you,  but  most  of 
the  women  on  the  Cape  have  to  stand  it. 

MERCY.     We  give  and  give ! 

CAPT.  J.  [putting  his  hand  on  Mercy's  where 
it  grips  the  edge  of  the  table]  Don't  take  it  this 
way,  Mercy.  Now  see  here,  my  dear,  what  would 
there  be  for  Ben  if  he  didn't  go  to  sea?  Why,  we 
Homers  always  go  to  sea.  You  can't  expect  to 
keep  him  forever. 

MERCY.  Don't  I  know  how  hopeless  that 
would  be?  I've  begged  you  to  leave  him  for  just 
one  more  voyage. 

[  62  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

CAPT.  J.  But  he'd  be  seventeen  when  I  come 
back,  too  old  for  cabin  boy  and  he  wouldn't  know 
enough  for  a  sailor. 

MERCY  [putting  the  question  that  has  waited 
for  utterance  every  time  her  men  have  left  lor 
long  voyages]  Why  does  he  need  to  be  a  sailor? 
Why  can't  he  be  a  farmer,  like  the  men  upstate? 

CAPT.  J.  [slowly,  as  if  the  thought  had  oc 
curred  to  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  life]  I  don't 
know.  I  never  thought  about  it.  We  Homers 
just  are  sailors.  We  never  think  of  bein'  anv- 
thing  else. 

MERCY  [inexorably]  Why  shouldn't  you  think 
of  it? 

CAPT.  J.  [fumbling  lor  words]  I  guess  you 
don't  understand.  Mebbe  a  woman  can't  rightly 
understand  it.  The  sea  ain't  like  what  you  think. 
I  ain't  got  words  to  explain  it,  but  it's  the  thing 
that  fills  me  with  peace  —  and  satisfies  me  some 
how.  It  makes  me  content.  I  get  restless  on  land 
-  you  know  that.  I  think  I'm  happy  enough 
while  I  stay  —  and  I  am  happy  —  and  I  say  the 
sea's  only  water  after  all,  and  mebbe  I'm  a  fool 
to  care.  But  when  I  get  back  to  it  again,  I 
know  there's  no  explainin'  the  content  it  does  give 
me. 

MERCY  [melting']  I  want  you  content,  but  oh,  I 
want  my  content  too ! 

CAPT.  J.  It's  only  fair  you  should  have  it.  I 
won't  take  Ben. 

[Mercy  hides  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  while  he 
strokes  her  hair.] 

[  63  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

CAPT.  J.  There  —  there  —  this  sea-farm' 
presses  kinder  hard  on  you  mothers. 

[Ben's  impatient  hand  fumbles  with  the  latch 
and  pushes  open  the  door.  Ben  runs  in.  He  has 
been  putting  up  the  ponies.  He  is  not  very  large 
for  his  age,  a  thin  boy  with  a  delicate,  high- 
spirited  face,  bearing  the  stamp  of  Mercy's  par 
entage.  He  is  primed  with  questions.] 

BEN.  I  could  bring  in  jour  box,  Father,  if 
you  wanted  me  to. 

CAPT.  J.  [picking  up  the  forgotten  pipe~\  Now 
what  makes  you  think  there  is  anything  in  that 
box  for  you? 

BEN.     Is  it  a  bowie  knife? 

CAPT.  J.  A  bowie  knife?  Why  don't  you  ask 
for  a  splinter  off  the  North  Pole?  Where  would 
I  be  gettin'  a  bowie  knife?  They  don't  grow  'em 
in  China. 

MERCY.  They  grow  tea  sets  in  China,  like 
ours  in  the  corner. 

CAPT.  J.  And  they've  taken  to  raisin'  silk 
shawls.  I  brought  one  to  your  mother  to  see  if 
'twould  bear  transplantin'. 

BEN  [refusing  to  be  diverted]  Well,  anyhow, 
old  Cap'n  Ezra  that  you  sailed  with  first  off,  he 
said  you  and  him  killed  twenty-two  savages  be 
tween  you  with  one  bowie-knife.  He  showed  me 
just  how  you  did  it,  —  how  you  passed  the  knife 
from  hand  to  hand,  and  across  [Ben  illustrates 
ecstatically]  so's  your  arm  wouldn't  get  tired. 
Did  you  do  that,  Father?  On  your  very  first 
voyage? 

[  64  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

CAPT.  J.  [laughing  heartily]  Well,  I  do  remem 
ber  'twas  on  that  voyage  Cap'n  Ezra  taught  me 
never  to  contradict  him.  What  else  did  he  tell 
you  ? 

BEX  [sitting  excitedly  on  the  edge  of  a  chair'} 

Oh,  about  nights  in  the  tropics,  when  there's  no 

wind,  and  the  sails  don't  even  stir,  and  you  wait 

-  and  wait  —  and  wait  for  something  to  happen. 

Gee,  I'd  like  to  see  it ! 

MERCY  [almost  pleadingly]  O  Ben,  my  boy, 
don't  you  know  they're  romancing? 

\_Slie  is  listening  with  great  anxiety  to  this 
conversation,  which  is  bringing  a  great  light,  for 
Ben,  boylike,  has  hidden  the  deep  feeling  he  has 
for  the  sea.] 

BEX.  O  sure,  I  know,  Mother,  'tain't  just  like 
what  they  say,  but  it's  all  true  about  storms,  — 
when  the  squall  comes  and  the  cap'n  (just  like 
you,  Father)  has  to  be  out  on  deck  givin'  orders 
and  thinkin'  quick  as  a  wink,  'cause  the  wind  is 
snappin'  the  masts  and  sweepin'  the  men  off  with 
'em  into  the  sea.  It  is  like  that,  isn't  it,  Father? 

CAPT.  J.       Not  often,  thank  God ! 

BEX  [hesitatingly]  Say,  Father,  Cap'n  Ezra, 
he  said  mebbe  — 

CAPT.  J.     Mebbe  what,  my  boy? 

BEX.  Mebbe  you'd  take  me  with  you  this  time. 
O  Father,  will  you? 

CAPT.  J.  Guess  not,  Son.  [Mercy  gives  a 
sigh  of  relief.]  We've  kinder  led  you  off  your 
longitude  with  our  stories.  Cap'n  Ezra  always 
could  stretch  a  yarn  further'n  the  truth  would 

[  65  ] 


MIS'   MERCY 

bear.  The  sea  ain't  like  what  we've  told  you,  at 
least  not  all  the  time.  Salt  pork  gets  bitter  in 
your  mouth  after  four  months  of  nothin'  else. 
And  some  days  you  yawn,  you're  so  sick  of  the 
sight  of  water. 

BEN.  But  you  always  come  to  land  in  such 
interestin'  places  —  like  Bombay  or  Singapore. 
You  can't  hate  the  sea  all  the  time.  I  couldn't. 
I've  been  out  on  it  every  minute  I  wasn't  farmin' 
all  summer  long — -and  nights  [shyly]  I  lie  out 
on  the  cliff  watchin'  it. 

MERCY  [Her  face  is  pitiful  to  see]  O  Benny ! 
When  I  thought  you  were  down  in  the  village  with 
the  boys ! 

CAPT.  J.  [Gently  to  Mercy]  Sea  fever  is 
catchin'.  [To  Ben]  You  think  you  like  the  sea, 
my  son,  but  there  are  a  good  many  things  to  take 
into  account,  —  for  one,  this  farm. 

BEN.  Lame  Jim  could  come  and  do  all  I  do 
now. 

CAPT.  J.  But  you'd  have  a  lot  more  peaceful 
life  if  you'd  stay  right  here  and  tend  to  it  your 
self. 

BEN.  Stay  here!  Live  all  my  life  on  one 
little  farm  when  there's  a  sea  to  take  me  anywhere 
I  want  to  go  —  China,  maybe,  and  Africa,  and 
Spain !  You  know  you  said  yourself  you  hoped 
some  owner  would  send  you  to  Spain  before  you 
died. 

MERCY  [trying  a  last  appeal]  But  think  of  the 
corn  you  could  raise  and  the  ponies ! 

BEN     [under standingly]     O    Mother,    I    knew 

[  66] 


MIS'   MERCY 

you'd  mind !  That's  why  I  couldn't  bear  to  say 
anything  till  Father  got  home.  But  Father, 
you're  a  Homer,  —  you  know  no  Homer  was  ever 
a  farmer ! 

CAPT.  J.  There's  a  first  time  for  everything, 
so  far  as  I  know.  Look  here,  my  boy.  You  sav 
you  knew  your  mother'd  mind.  Did  you  stop  to 
figger  just  how  much  she'd  mind?  When  we  men- 
folks  go  to  sea,  we  know  just  what's  happenin'  to 
us,  but  she  stays  here  at  home  —  imaginin'  and 
wonderin'  and  dreadin'  —  alone.  Think  of  vour 
mother  a  bit. 

[Before  Ben  can  answer,  Mercy  goes  hastily  to 
him  and  puts  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  She  is 
no  longer  Mercy  Homer;  she  is  wholly  Ben's 
mother.] 

MERCY.  Leave  me  out  of  it,  John.  Ben,  do 
you  want  to  be  a  sailor  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world? 

BEX  [speaking  with  the  assurance  of  an  in 
herit  ance  that  will  not  be  denied]  I  have  to  be, 
Mother. 

MERCY  [dropping  her  hands  from  his  shoulders 
and  clenching  them,  as  if  to  control  herself  for 
the  difficult  decision]  Then,  —  take  him,  John. 

BEX.      You  mean  I  can  go? 

MERCY.     That's  what  I  mean,  my  boy. 

[Ben  kisses  her  hastily  and  capers  round  the 
room.  As  he  passes  the  window,  he  sees  Hannah 
and  John  coming  up  the  hill,  and  opens  the  door 
for  them,  calling.] 

BEX.     I'm  goin'  to  sea  !    I'm  goin'  to  sea ! 

[  67  ] 


MIS'    MERCY 

[Mercy's  husband  looks  at  her  helplessly.  Her 
face  is  calm  and  not  unhappy.] 

CAPT.  J.       Well,  I  can't  understand  - 

[Mercy  grasps  his  arm.  It  seems  to  help  some 
how,  to  hold  it  tight.  Hannah  and  John  enter. 
As  they  come  in,  Hannah  slips  from  the  arm 
across  her  shoulder,  and  runs  over  to  Mercy. ] 

HANNAH.  O  why  did  you  do  it,  Mother 
Mercy?  Why  did  you  let  him  go  when  you 
wanted  him  so?  You  said  you'd  fight  to  the  very 
end  to  keep  Ben !  [The  girl  turns  bravely  to  the 
Captain]  'Tisn't  fair  for  you  to  take  him ! 

[Young  John,  standing  in  the  doorway,  looks 
at  Hannah  in  surprise.] 

JOHN.  Why,  Hannah,  Homers  always  go  to 
sea ! 

[Only  Mercy  sees  the  flicker  of  fear  in  Han 
nah's  eyes,  a  kind  of  terror  of  the  inevitable.  She 
draws  Hannah  aside.] 

MERCY.  It's  all  right,  Hannah.  John  wasn't 
goin'  to  take  Ben.  I  let  him  go. 

HANNAH.     But  why  —  why? 

MERCY  [simply,  as  if  this  is  all  the  explanation 
needed]  He  wanted  to  go. 

HANNAH  [looking  at  her  and  thinking  the  thing 
out  aloud]  You  loved  him  so  much,  you  let  him 
go,  just  because  he  wanted  to. 

MERCY  [half  smiling]  That's  about  it,  Hannah. 

CAPT.  J.  Figure  it  how  you  like.  I  call  it 
blame  tough. 

BEN  [pulling  at  his  father's  hand]  Can  I  bring 
in  your  box  now,  Father? 

[  68  ] 


MIS'   MERCY 

CAPT.  J.  Comin',  son.  Haul  away.  Come 
'long  with  us,  John?  This  tad's  too  slim  to 
handle  a  sea  chest  yet. 

JOHN  [looking  anxiously  at  Hannah,  who  is 
seeing,  not  the  room  about  her,  but  the  vista  of  the 
years  ahead]  Will  you  stand  by  —  here  —  Han 
nah?  'Twon't  take  two  shakes. 

HAXXAH  [looking  at  him  a  moment  before  re 
plying  with  meaning]  I'll  stand  by. 

[As  the  men  go  out,  Mercy  returns  to  the  table, 
in  the  service  of  her  family.  Hannah  sits  by  the 
table,  her  chin  on  her  hands.] 

HAXXAH  [finally,  thinking  aloud]  It  takes  a 
great  deal  of  love. 

MERCY.  You  mean  —  to  give  'em  up  because 
they  want  to  go?  [She  learn  over  and  puts  one 
hand  on  Hannah's  shoulder,  saying  very  simply] 
Why,  child,  what  does  a  "  great  deal  "  matter,  so 
long  as  there's  love  enough? 


CURTAIN 


[  69] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 
AN    INTERLUDE 

BY 

ARTHUR    KETCHUM 


CHARACTERS 

RAMBLIN*  RED 

THE  CONNECTICUT  KID 

THE  OTHER  ONE 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  October  21  and 
22,  1921. 

Copyright  1921  by  Arthur  Ketchum. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of 
any  kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop, 
Harvard  College,  Mass.  Moving  picture  rights  reserved. 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

TIME:    The  day  before  tomorrow. 

SCENE:  A  clear  space  under  a  railroad  bridge. 
On  either  side,  solid  blocks  of  stone  rising  into 
the  dimness,  frame  the  picture.  At  their  bases 
are  a  few  scanty  bushes,  bleak  and  leafless. 
Within  there  is  a  suggestion  of  ston-ework  that 
makes  the  walls.  At  the  right  side,  against  the 
stone,  there  are  two  railroad  ties  that  make  a 
sort  of  bench.  The  entire  scene  is  played  towards 
the  front.  The  obscurity  which  completely  hides 
the  rear  of  the  stage  is  lightened  only  by  the 
fire.  All  the  entrances  are  made  from  this  dark 
ness.  The  voices  of  Red  and  the  Kid  when  out 
side  are  heard  as  -from  above.  The  play  begins 
in  the  darkness  of  a  rainy  night  in  early  spring. 

A  moment  after  the  curtain  rises,  a  long,  low 
whistle  is  heard  from  above.  There  is  a  pause. 
Then  it  is  repeated  and  the  voice  of  Red  is  heard 
speaking  cautiously. 

RED.  Yer  there,  kid?  It's  all  right.  He's 
gone.  Light  up.  [There  is  no  answer^  Ain't  here 
yet. 

[He  is  heard  coming  slowly  down  in  the  dark 
ness.  Presently  there  is  a  spurt  of  a  match,  and 

[  73] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

he  lights  a  bit  of  a  candle.  In  the  dim  light  is 
discovered  a  slim  boy's  figure  lying  prone  on  the 
railroad  ties.  He  wears  a  pair  of  khaki  trousers 
and  an  old  black  coat  too  large  for  liim.  A  gray 
cap  is  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  Red,  who  is  an 
older  man,  dressed  roughly,  with  a  battered  hat 
pulled  down  on  his  reddish  hair,  stands  at  left  rear 
a  moment  regarding  him]  Asleep,  dry  and  com 
fortable  and  asleep,  and  me  cold  as  hell.  Wot 
yer  think  of  that?  Hey,  Kid.  [The  boy  does 
not  stir']  Kid!  !  [He  shakes  him  roughly.'] 

KID  [rising  with  a  sudden  start]  Comin',  sir. 
[Recognizing  Red  and  recollecting  himself  with  a 
sort  of  sheepish  little  laugh,  half  relieved]  Oh, 
you.  I  thought  —  I  thought  —  I  was  — 

RED.  Never  mind  what  yer  thought.  Yer 
ain't  lit  the  fire  like  I  told  yer. 

KID.  The  train  must  have  been  late,  Red.  I 
had  to  wait.  Gee,  it  was  an  awful  long  train, 
rumblin',  rumblin'  over  my  head.  Seemed  like  it 
never  was  going  to  get  by.  And  then  the  track 
walker  —  [Red  sets  candle  on  ground,  far  left, 
half  front.] 

RED.     He  didn't  see  yer,  did  he? 

KID.  Sure  he  didn't  see  me.  Wasn't  I  glued 
to  these  here  ties  like  I  growed  here?  I  guess 
I  know  enough  for  that. 

RED  [sarcastically]  Yer  are  naturally  bright, 
that's  all.  Did  he  put  the  flash  on  yer? 

KID.  Not  a  flash,  just  walked  along.  He  was 
whistlin'.  It  sounded  good. 

RED.     Ah,  you  and  yer  sound.     Got  the  wood? 

[  74  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

KID.  All  I  could,  but  it  ain't  much.  Every 
thing  so  damn  wet. 

[He  has  taken  some  wood  and  brush  and  heaped 
them  up  between  himself  and  Red,  who  has 
crouched  down  in  anticipation  of  the  fire.  The 
Kid  lights  it  but  it  will  not  burn.]  Y'ain't  any 
paper  on  yer,  have  yer,  Red? 

RED.  Say,  what  kind  of  a  side  partner  are 
yer,  anyway?  First  yer  go  to  sleep  and  then  yer 
can't  get  the  fire  goin'.  And  me  wet  and  cold  as 
a  dog.  I  was  to  get  the  grub,  wasn't  I,  and  you 
was  to  have  the  fire  ready,  wasn't  yer?  Hell  of  a 
fire  yer've  got. 

KID  [blowing  on  a  few  of  the  fast  vanishing 
sparks']  Can't  make  it  burn. 

RED.  Next  time  I  won't  join  up  with  no  more 
kids.  I  might  ha'  been  in  Springfield  by  now, 
but  this  draggin'  along  and  restin'  — 

KID.  You  was  awful  good  when  my  foot  got 
sore  and  I  don't  know  what  I'd  a'  done  tryin'  to 
make  Springfield  alone.  Five  days !  That's  a 
long  hike  when  yer  don't  know  the  way,  and  all 
by  yerself.  I  hate  to  be  by  myself  now. 

RED.  Oh,  quit  the  talk  and  get  that  fire  goin'. 
Yer've  got  some  paper  yourself.. 

KID.     You  mean  —  the  letter? 

RED.  Sure  I  mean  the  letter.  Yer've  been 
readin'  it  enough  times  to  know  it  by  heart.  Oh, 
I've  see  yer  when  yer  thought  I  wasn't  lookin'. 
Come  on,  Connecticut,  I'm  cold. 

KID.     Well,  Red,  yer  see  that  letter   — 

[  75  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

RED.  Oh,  your  lady  friend'll  write  yer 
another. 

KID.  It  ain't  a  lady  friend.  [He  draws  -from 
an  inside  pocket  a  letter.  He  takes  something 
from  inside  the  envelope  quickly  and  puts  it  back 
in  his  pocket  again}  Well,  I  guess  yer  right.  I 
don't  need  it  now,  —  It  ain't  as  if  I  was  all  by 
myself,  and  besides  —  [He  crumples  it  up  and 
places  it  under  the  wood,  lighting  it]  Besides,  I 
do  know  it  by  heart.  [The  blaze  leaps  up 
brightly.]  There's  yer  fire. 

RED  [looking  at  the  Kid  with  meaning]  An' 
yer  didn't  have  to  use  it  all  either. 

KID  [uneasily]  Yes,  I  did,  all  but  — 

RED.  All  but  the  money.  I  seen  it,  and  yer 
can't  deny  yer've  got  it.  God,  yer  a  peach. 
Money  in  his  pocket  all  the  time  and  him  never 
letting  on !  Lettin'  me  beat  it  for  a  hand-out  and 
him  takin'  his  share.  Lettin'  me  be  hungry  and 
him  with  his  money  and  enough  to  buy  plenty  for 
us  both.  When  that  soft  old  guy  at  the  mission 
give  me  the  two  bits,  oh,  you  didn't  mind  comin'  in 
on  it  like  a  good  pal.  Pal!  I  wish't  to  hell  I'd 
never  joined  up  with  a  tight  like  you. 

KID.  Listen,  Red.  I  meant  to  tell  yer  an  I 
thought  maybe  y'd  guessed  anyway  when  I  told 
yer  I  was  going  back  east  from  Springfield. 
That's  why  I  wanted  to  get  there.  [He  speaks 
with  difficulty.]  Yer  see,  just  before  my  time  was 
up  in  —  in  that  place  there,  I  wrote  home  and  my 
mother  sent  me  this  to  come  on  as  quick  as  I 
could.  She  didn't  have  very  much,  but  it  was 

[  76] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

enough  —  from  Springfield.  I  know  I  didn't  tell 
3Ter,  but  yer  see  it  wasn't  as  if  it  was  mine  exactly. 
Yer  see  how  it  is,  don't  you,  Red. 

RED.  Sure  I  see.  [With  a  hard  laugh']  The 
little  jail  bird's  goin'  back  to  his  nest.  I  suppose 
yer  countin'  on  a  brass  band  at  the  station  and 
Welcome  Home  wavin'  over  Main  Street  between 
the  drug  store  and  the  Post  Office.  That's  what 
yer  always  count  on  —  the  first  time. 

KID.  I  ain't  countin'  on  nothin'.  Only  gettin' 
there,  and  bein'  with  folks  that  don't  believe  I 
done  it. 

RED.     She  don't  believe  yer  done  it? 

KID.  She  knows  I  didn't  do  it.  That's  what 
she  wrote  in  the  letter  and  why  she  sent  the  money, 
so's  I  could  come  back. 

RED.  It's  all  right  about  her,  maybe,  but  how 
about  the  others?  The  boss  at  the  factory,  where 
you  go  to  get  your  job:  the  man  that  oVns  the 
grocer's  store  when  he  asks  you  where  you  was 
working  last ;  as  if  he  didn't  know !  Think  he  is 
going  to  trust  his  team  to  a  man  that's  done 
time?  And  how  about  the  others  that  yer  used 
to  know?  Think  they're  goin'  to  want  'to  know 
yer  any  more?  I  guess  me  and  the  Connecticut 
Kid'll  meet  on  the  road  again. 

KID.  I  ain't  never  thought  of  that.  I  ain't 
never  thought  of  nothing  but  just  getting  back. 
But  I'll  show  'em.  I'll  show  ''em  and  I'll  show 
'em  now. 

RED.     For  God's  sake  what  yer  'goin  to  do? 

KID   [rising]   I'm  goin'  to  hike  to   Springfield 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

now  and  get  the  first  train  back  east.  I've  been 
too  long  already. 

RED.  Sit  down!  Ah,  sit  down,  kid.  Be 
reasonable.  It  is  foolish  to  go  now.  It's  forty 
miles  if  it's  a  step  and  yer've  been  on  the  road  all 
day.  We'll  start  early.  There's  plenty  of  time 
and  plenty  of  trains,  and  with  money  —  why,  it's 
a  cinch. 

KID.     I  want  to  go  now.     I'll  show  'em. 

RED.  But  yer  ain't  forgot  there  was  a  favor 
yer  was  goin'  to  do  for  me  in  Springfield, 
have  yer?  Yer  ain't  goin'  back  on  a  partner  like 
that. 

KID.  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  wait  till  the 
morning.  And  what's  this  yer  want  me  to  do 
for  yer  in  Springfield?  Y've  been  awful  good 
to  me,  Red,  and  I  can't  forget  it.  Lettin'  me 
come  along  with  yer  and  helpin'  me  out  like  you 
done.  Why,  that  day  when  you  met  up  with  me 
when  I  was  sittin'  there  'long  side  the  track  — 
[a  little  laugh]  I  was  scared  I  guess.  Kind  o' 
funny  in  my  head.  Thinkin'  there  was  somebody 
behind  every  bush  waitin'  to  bring  me  back  to 
the  pen  again.  I  used  to  run  hard  as  I  could, 
just  away  from  nothing,  till  I  hurt  my  foot.  I 
know  I  ought  to  have  told  you  about  the  money, 
but  I  didn't  know  how.  It  seems  like  boastin', 
but  when  I  get  back  home  — 

RED.  That'll  be  all  right,  when  yer  get  back 
home.  But  here's  somethin'  would  please  me 
better'n  a  post  card  with  "  Greetings  from  Circle- 
ville  "  printed  on  it. 

[78] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

KID.  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do,  Red? 
I  can't  touch  the  money,  but  — 

RED.  What'd  I  want  with  your  money.  This 
is  something  different.  It's  this  way.  I  got  a 
friend  waitin'  for  me  at  Springfield,  or  just  this 
side  of  it.  He  and  me's  framed  up  a  little  job 
there  on  an  old  guy  that's  got  more  than's  good 
for  him.  There's  a  reason  why  me  and  my  friend 
can't  do  much  goin'  round  in  Springfield.  A 
pretty  good  reason.  What  we  want's  a  nice 
young  feller,  a  feller  looks  like  he's  just  out  of  a 
hospital,  to  make  a  few  inquiries  for  us. 

KID.  I  can't  do  it,  Red.  Honest,  I  can't  do 
it.  I  can't  run  no  risk  of  the  pen  again,  and  be 
sides  —  I  want  to  go  straight. 

RED.  Pen,  nothin'  !  There  ain't  a  Chinaman's 
chance  of  it.  And  there  ain't  nothin'  wrong 
takin'  somethin'  from  somebody  that  stole  in 
the  first  place,  is  there?  But  you  won't  have 
nothin'  to  do  with  that  part  of  it.  Why,  you'll 
be  sittin'  on  velvet  and  half  way  to  Circleville  be 
fore  anything  happens.  Yer  on,  ain't  you,  Kid? 

KID.     I  don't  like  it.     It  don't  sound  straight. 

RED.  Who  are  you  to  be  askin'  if  it's  straight 
or  not.  That  comes  good  from  a  man  just  out  of 
the  pen. 

KID.  But  that  didn't  make  me  a  crook.  I  tell 
you,  I  didn't  do  it. 

RED.  Just  what  I  said  the  first  time  and  the 
second  time,  too.  But  the  Judge  always  seen  it 
different.  Can  the  bluff,  Kid. 

KID.     It  ain't  a  bluff.     It's  true. 

[   79   ] 


THE    OTHER   ONE 

RED  [in  mock  amazement]  Say,  yer  too 
good  for  this  life.  What  brought  you  here, 
anyway? 

KID.  Oh,  I  got  laid  oft'  and  I  heard  about  the 
harvest  job,  so  I  came  out.  Afterwards  I  got  sick 
and  all  my  money  went.  Then,  —  the  trouble 
came.  But  I  didn't  do  it,  Red.  I  swear  — 

RED  [quickly']  All  right,  all  right.  But  yer'll 
help  a  pal  out  now,  won't  yer,  Kid?  Yer  just  the 
one  that  can.  I  knew  it  the  first  minute  I  see 
you.  Y'll  do  it?  For  a  pal? 

KID.  If  yer  sure  I  can  do  it  straight  and  there 
ain't  no  risk? 

RED.  Sure.  Not  a  risk.  Do  you  think  the 
Ramblin'  Red's  takin'  any  risks  —  again?  Not 
a  chance,  Kid,  not  a  chance. 

KID.  Well  —  if  you're  sure.  [Shyly]  Yer've 
been  pretty  good  to  me,  Red. 

RED.  Oh,  cut  it  out.  I  want  to  eat.  Find 
any  grub?  Spider  said  he'd  leave  some  here,  bat 
he  always  was  a  liar. 

KID.  There  was  some  tea  in  a  can  in  the  place 
yer  said  and  a  chunk  of  bread.  Didn't  they  give 
you  anything  at  the  house  you  went  to  last? 

RED  [with  a  short  laugh]  The  lady  said  she 
was  a  Christian  and  didn't  believe  in  tramps. 
"  Excuse  me,  lady,"  I  said,  "  yer  calling  me  out 
of  my  name.  Not  a  tramp  —  a  migratory 
worker."  Well,  us  for  the  bread  and  tea. 

KID.  I'll  go  to  the  spring  and  get  the  water. 
It's  your  turn  to  take  it  easy  by  the  fire. 

[He  goes  out  with  the  can.     The  fire  has  be- 

[  80  ] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

gun  to  sink  and  Red  moves  about  finding  bits  of 
brush  and  wood.  He  brings  them  to  the  fire  and 
the  flames  leap  up  again.  In  the  sudden  light  Red 
looks  in  the  direction  of  the  place  where  the  Kid 
has  been  sitting  and  sees  something  that  attracts 
his  attention..  He  makes  a  sudden  movement  and 
picks  up  a  roll  of  bills  from  the  ground.] 

RED.  Christ!  The  Kid's  wad!  [He  bends 
down  near  the  fire  counting  it~\  A  five,  another 
five,  ten  and  and  a  ten.  Thirty  dollars.  Well! 
[He  smiles]  Easy  money.  Just  picking  it  up. 
[Sits  down  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction]  I  guess 
you  ain't  goin'  to  be  none  too  good  for  that 
Springfield  job,  Kid  [He  notices  near  the  fire  a 
scarred  scrap  of  the  Kid's  letter.  He  takes  it 
up  and  slowly  deciphers  the  writing  on  it.]  "  No 
difference  what  you  —  '  "  waiting  —  you  come 
back."  "Welcome"  [He  throws  the  fragment 
into  the  fire  again  with  an  exclamation,  half  of 
contempt.]  I  guess  they  won't  hang  that  "  Wel 
come  Home  "  banner  across  Main  Street  just  yet 
a  while. 

[He  takes  the  money  from  his  pocket  and, 
counts  again,  and  then  looks  into  the  fire  smiling 
with  anticipation.  The  Kid  is  heard  whistling  a 
gay  tune  outside.  Red  puts  the  money  hastily 
away.  The  whistling  soiuids  nearer  and  in  a 
moment  the  Kid  enters.] 

RED.  That's  right.  Tell  'em  all  we're  here. 
Ask  'em  in  to  supper  and  spend  the  evenin'.  What 
yer  makin'  all  that  noise  for? 

KID.     Oh,   there's    nobody    'round,    Red.     Not 

[  81  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

a  light,  not  even  a  star.     It  took  some  lookin'  to 
find  that  spring. 

RED.  It  took  you  long  enough.  Hurry  up 
with  that  water.  The  fire  won't  stay  forever. 

KID.  Gee,  you've  got  it  hot  enough  here.  Too 
hot  for  a  coat  [Unbuttons  his  coat.  Before  he 
slips  it  off  he  puts  his  hand  into  the  inside  pocket. 
He  gives  a  cry]  It  ain't  there!  [He  looks  at  Red 
dazed.  ] 

RED.     What  ain't  there? 

KID.  My  money!  My  money!  It's  gone!  I 
had  it  here  showing  it  to  you,  just  before  I  went 
out.  [He  goes  to  place  where  he  had  been  sitting 
and  begins  to  search  wildly.]  No,  no.  It  ain't 
here.  [He  rises  and  faces  Red.]  Red,  you  got  it. 
Give  it  back  to  me.  Give  it  back  to  me  or  I'll  — 
I'll  kill  yer !  [His  hands  are  working.] 

RED.  What  yer  talking  about?  How'd  I  get 
it?  Why,  I  ain't  been  near  yer.  Besides,  what'd 
I  want  with  yer  lousy  money? 

KID.  Yer  must  have  it.  Yer've  taken  it  just 
to  fool  me.  Give  it  back  to  me,  Red.  Give  it 
back.  I  just  can't  stand  thinking  I've  lost  it. 

RED.  I  ain't  got  it,  I  tell  yer.  Why,  yer  know 
I  ain't  been  near  yer  since  yer  showed  it  to  me. 

KID.   [slowly.]     Yer  —  ain't  —  got  —  it? 

RED.     So  help  me,  I  ain't,  Kid. 

KID  [raising  his  clenched  hands  in  a  sudden 
tense  gesture  of  despair]  Oh,  God,  it's  lost.  The 
money  that  was  going  to  bring  me  home ;  it's  lost. 

RED.  How'd  yer  know  it's  lost  when  you  ain't 
half  looked  for  it,  standing  there  like  a  movie 

[  82  ] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

actor.     Why  don't  yer  go  hunt  for  it? 

KID.     Where'm  I  goin'  to  find  it? 

RED.  Well,  it  ain't  here.  Look  for  it  outside. 
Yer  went  to  the  spring,  didn't  yer? 

KID  [with  a  gleam  of  hope]  Sure;  maybe  I 
dropped  it  when  I  was  leaning  over,  or  along  the 
track.  I'll  take  the  candle  and  look  for  it  every 
inch  of  the  way.  [Takes  candle  from  left  of  Red 
and  disappears.'] 

RED.  Take  plenty  of  time,  Kid.  Look  careful. 
[He  replenishes  the  fire  and  it  blazes  up  again4 
He  crouches  beside  it.]  He'll  forget  all  about  it. 
[He  yawns  and  relaxes  in  sleep.] 

[The  Other  One  enters  slowly  into  the  circle  of 
light.  He  is  a  man  of  early  middle  age,  bearded, 
and  rather  pale.  He  is  dressed  in  the  ronqh  dress 
of  a  -corking  man.  There  is  a  soft  black  hat  on 
his  thick  hair.  He  comes  to  the  -firelight  noise 
lessly  from  behind  Red  and  stands  so  that  his 
shadow  is  suddenly  thrown  upon  the  wall  opposite. 
Then  he  remains  motionless.  There  is  a  pause. 
Red  drowses,  unconscious  of  his  presence.  A 
slight  sound  from  the  fire  rouses  Red,  who  looks 
up  and  sees  the  shadow.] 

RED.  Found  it,  Kid?  [He  sees  The  Other 
and  half  rises  on  the  alert.]  Why,  it  ain't. 
Who  —  who  —  are  you? 

THE  OTHER.  Oh,  just  a  man  on  the  road  like 
yourself.  [He  speaks  very  slowly  and  quietly.] 

RED  [settling  back  relieved]  Well,  as  long  as 
you  ain't  the  track  walker  or  a  bull,  it's  all  right. 
What  yer  want? 

t  83  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

THE  OTHER.  Nothing  but  what  you  can  give 
me.  I'm  cold. 

RED.  Guess  the  fire's  free,  stranger.  Sit 
down.  [He  indicates  the  Kid's  place.  The  Other 
One  comes  to  it  and  sits.] 

THE  OTHER.  I'm  glad  to  rest.  I've  come  a 
long  way. 

RED.     Silver  Mine,  maybe? 

THE  OTHER.  Yes,  and  beyond  that,  a  long 
way  beyond  and  I've  got  a  long  way  to  go  too. 

RED.     Where  are  you  bound  for  now? 

THE  OTHER.     Springfield. 

RED.      Springfield?     That's  funny  —  so'm  I. 

THE  OTHER  [giving  him  a  long  look]  Suppose 
we  go  together. 

RED  [staring  back  at  him  defiantly]  Say, 
stranger,  what's  the  game?  You  comin'  in  here 
tonight  and  lookin'  at  me  like  that.  Who  are 
you,  anyway? 

THE  OTHER.  I  told  you.  Just  a  man  on  the 
road,  like  yourself. 

RED  [impatiently]  Oh,  I  know  all  that,  but  it 
ain't  enough.  What's  yer  job  — yer  business? 

THE  OTHER.  I  can  do  many  things;  but  I  was 
a  builder  mostly. 

RED.  Was?  Lost  yer  job,  eh.  And  gom'  to 
Springfield  fer  another? 

THE  OTHER.  Yes,  I've  got  a  job  waiting  for 
me  in  Springfield.  Like  you. 

RED  [laughing]  I  guess  it  ain't  the  same  as 
mine,  stranger.  Mine's  —  special. 

[  84  ] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

THE  OTHER.  It's  a  good  thing  to  have  a  job 
when  you  can  do  it  well. 

RED.  You  bet  your  life  I'll  do  mine  well.  In 
mv  business  you've  got  to  do  it  well  or  you  won't 
get  another  chance  —  for  a  long  time. 

THE  OTHER.  It's  the  same  everywhere. 
There's  only  one  chance  for  everything.  It  comes 
and  it  goes  again.  It  never  comes  back. 

RED.  You're  right,  bo  !  My  motto,  too.  Take 
it  when  yer  find  it,  I  sez. 

THE  OTHER.  That's  right.  [Pause]  And 
give  it,  too.  Only  one  chance  for  that. 

RED  [doubtfully]  Well,  I  ain't  one  of  these  here 
philanthropists. 

THE  OTHER  [with  a  little  smile]  Looks  like  you 
were  to  me  tonight. 

RED.  John  D.  and  the  Rambling  Red !  Sounds 
good.  No  stranger,  guess  again.  I  ain't  givin' 
nothin'  away  an'  nobody  gave  nothin'  to  me. 

THE  OTHER  [searchingly]  Haven't  they. 
You're  sure? 

RED  [defiantly]  What'd  they  give  me?  Hell  of 
a  lot.  Kicked  me  out  and  then  shut  the  door  when 
I  tried  to  get  in  again.  Shut  it  and  locked  it 
both  sides. 

THE  OTHER  [In  the  same  tone  in  which  he  first 
questioned]  Is  that  all? 

RED  [gruffly]  Oh,  well,  some  of  'em  were  sorry 
for  me,  maybe. 

THE  OTHER  [still  slowly  and  looking  straight 
at  Red]  You  give  a  great  deal  when  you're  sorry 

[  85  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

for  some  one.  You  have  to.  Sometimes  —  every 
thing. 

RED  [suspiciously]  Say,  what  you  puttin'  over 
on  me,  a  sermon?  And  what  did  yer  come  in 
here  for  anyway?  It  looks  queer. 

THE  OTHER.  You  called  me,  [Red  looks 
quickly  up]  didn't  you? 

RED.  Nobody  called  yer.  Who  would?  You 
must  have  heard  the  Kid  I  guess,  hollerin'  outside. 

THE  OTHER.  Is  he  in  trouble  too?  Your 
friend  ? 

RED.      Sure.     Six  months.     In  the  Pen. 

THE  OTHER.  And  the  door  is  open  now  unless 
[Red  gives  a  quick  glance  at  the  Other  One],  un 
less  somebody  shuts  it.  Is  that  it? 

RED  [surlily]  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with  him. 
Just  happened  to  meet  up  with  him  on  the  road. 

THE  OTHER.  "  Just  happened !  "  What  a 
chance ! 

RED.     You're  right,  it's  a  chance  all  right. 

THE  OTHER.     Where  is  your  friend? 

RED.  The  Kid?  Oh,  he's  looking  outside 
there  for  something  he  thinks  he's  lost. 

THE  OTHER.     Is  he  going  to  find  it? 

RED.     How  do  I  know? 

THE  OTHER.     He  will  if  he  looks  long  enough. 

RED.  Seek  and  find  [laughs].  Sounds  like  a 
Sunday  School  text  but  it  ain't  true. 

THE  OTHER.  No,  not  yet,  but  it  will  be.  It 
always  happens  for  everyone  if  he  looks  long 
enough.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  found  my 
chance  for  —  my  Springfield  job. 

[  86  ] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

RED  [slowly]  I  guess  everybody's  lookin'  for 
somethin'. 

THE  OTHER.  Yes,  everybody.  For  the  same 
thing,  too. 

RED.  The  same  thing!  Me  and  the  Kid  and 
the- soap-box  preachers,  and  you? 

THE  OTHER.  The  very  same  thing —  [softer] 
only  they  don't  know  it. 

RED.  Say,  you're  so  wise,  what's  this  they  all 
want  ? 

THE  OTHER.     It's  never  what  they  think  it  is. 

[The  fire  has  burned  down  and  the  place  has 
grown  almost  dark.] 

RED  [with  a  little  start]  It  makes  me  feel  queer 
the  way  you  talk.  And  the  fire's  down  and  the 
dry  wood's  all  gone  too.  What  did  I  let  the  Kid 
take  my  candle  for? 

THE  OTHER.  Never  mind  yours.  I  have 
another.  We'll  light  mine.  [He  takes  a  large 
icax  candle  -from  his  pocket  and  lights  it  at  the 
dying  fire.] 

RED.  It  sure  gives  more  light  than  mine  did. 
[Goes  orer  to  get  candle.  They  meet  at  centre, 
back  of  fire.  Red  puts  candle  down  on  ground, 
left  half  front]  I'm  obliged  to  you,  stranger. 
[Giving  the  Other  One  a  puzzled  look]  Ain't 
there  something  you  want  from  me? 

THE  OTHER.  Yes.  I  am  hungry,  very 
hungry. 

RED.  I've  only  got  some  dry  bread,  but  you're 
welcome. 

[He  gives  the  other  a  bit  of  bread  which  is  on 

[  87  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

the  floor  beside  him.  As  the  other  takes  it  he 
notices  his  hands.}  God!  look  at  yer  hands.  Who 
did  that  to  you? 

THE  OTHER  [hastily  drawing  them  back}  A 
friend. 

RED.  He  must  have  been  a  bad  un.  What  did 
he  do  it  for? 

THE  OTHER.     Money. 

RED.  He  must  have  wanted  it  awful  bad,  and 
it  must  have  been  a  lot. 

THE  OTHER  [shaking  his  head  a  little}  It  was 
only  thirty  —  dollars. 

RED  [incredulous}  He  give  you  those  for 
thirty  dollars ! 

THE  OTHER.  He  did  not  know  how  much  they 
would  cost. 

RED.     And  yer  say  a  friend  did  that? 

THE  OTHER.  Who  else  could  leave  scars  like 
those? 

RED  [viciously}  I  hope  yer  punished  him  good 
and  plenty. 

THE  OTHER  [nodding  his  head  with  a  little* 
smile}  Yes,  I  punished  him. 

RED  [one  step  forward  with  interest}  How? 
I'd  like  to  know  what'd  yer  do  to  pay  him  back 
for  those? 

THE  OTHER.     Oh,  I  forgave  him. 

RED  [in  blank  amazement}  What?  I  can't 
make  it  out.  Damned  if  I  can  make  it  out.  Yer 
punished  him  by  forgivin'  him.  Why,  nobody 
does  that. 

THE  OTHER.     Yes,  that's  why  they  go  on  do- 

[  88  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

ing  the  same  old  things  —  just  because  nobody 
does. 

RED    [puzzled,   scratching  his   head]      It'd  be 
a   queer   way   of   doing   it.      [Little   laugh]    And 
it     would     put     a     lot     of     folks     out     of     their 
jobs.     [Slowly]     I    wonder  —  if  —  it  —  would  - 
work. 

THE  OTHER.     Does  the  other  way  work? 
RED.     You  mean  —  me? 

THE  OTHER.  You,  when  the  door  was  locked 
and  you  couldn't  get  back. 

RED  [s ullenly]  I  never  had  no  chance  to  try 
your  way. 

THE  OTHER  [with  a  touch  of  eagerness  in  his 
voice]  But  suppose  —  just  suppose  it  had  been 
given  you. 

RED.  Aw,  what's  the  good  of  talking'  ?  They 
don't  give  no  chances  where  I  come  from,  and  they 
don't  take  none,  either.  But  yer  ain't  eatin', 
stranger.  [The  Other  One  and  Red  both  break 
a  bit  of  bread  they  hare  in  their  hands  to  eat.  As 
they  do  so,  Red  glances  at  The  Other  One,  whose 
face  is  in  the  firelight,  and  gires  a  sudden  excla 
mation  of  surprise  and  aicc.]  Why  —  why  — 
it's  —  [He  laughs  a  little  sheepishly  recovering 
himself.]  Funny  !  It  seemed  —  just  then  —  like 
I'd  seen  you  before. 

THE  OTHER.  Maybe  you  have.  We're  both 
on  the  same  road. 

RED  [still  looking  at  him  as  if  not  hearing  him] 
It  was  a  long  —  long  —  time  ago.  [With  a 
change  of  voice.]  Pshaw!  It  couldn't  be  that  — 

[  89  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

yet  what's  your  name,  stranger,  if  you  don't  mind 
telling  me? 

THE  OTHER  [smiling]  Oh,  I  have  many  names. 
RED    [quickly]    I   know  —  same   here,   but   I'd 
like  to  think  about  you  with  a  name. 

THE  OTHER.     Why  not,  then,  call  me  —  "  The 
Other  One." 

RED.     "  The  Other  One?  "     Say,  sounds  like  a 
partnership ! 

THE  OTHER  [slowly]  Yes,  you  and  the  Kid  and 
the  Other  One. 

RED.      Say,  what's  the  Kid  got  to  do  with  it? 
THE  OTHER.     He  has  everything  to  do  with  it. 
RED.     He  ain't  nothing  to  me,  I  tell  yer.     I 
ain't  nothing  to  him  —  just  — 

THE  OTHER   [leaning  far  forward,  looking  at 
him  straight.]     Thirty  dollars? 

RED.  Thirty  dollars!  [The  Other  nods  and 
sits  back,  relaxed.]  Just  the  same  as  —  [Points 
to  hands  of  the  Other  One.]  Oh,  I  give  it  up. 
[Yawns  —  slumps  down.].  I  guess  I'm  getting 
dippy  with  sleep.  These  all-day  hikes  gets  yer 
tired.  [More  and  more  drowsily]  I  guess  —  I'll 
-  just  —  shut  —  my  —  eyes  a  minute  —  just  a 
minute.  [He  lies  down  facing  fire  and  is  quickly 
asleep.  The  Other  One  leans  farther  and 
farther  forward,  watching  Red  as  lie  slumps  to 
the  ground.  After  a  moment  The  Other  One  sits 
back,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  He  rises  and  stands 
looking  down  upon  Red  with  a  long  comprehend 
ing  look  which  has  a  touch  of  triumph  in  it. 
Then  he  walks  backward  and  disappears  into  the 

[  90  ] 


THE    OTHER    OXE 

shadow  of  the  rear  of  the  stage  as  noiselessly  as 
he  came.] 

[There  is  a  pause  and  the  Kid  comes  in.  He 
stumbles  a  little,  and  comes  slowly  and  dejectedly 
to  his  old  place.  He  pays  no  attention  to  Red. 
but  leans  forward  for  a  moment  looking  into  the 
embers  of  the  fire,  and  then  as  if  sure  of  his  bemg 
unobserved,  lets  his  head  sink  upon  his  arms, 
folded  with  clenched  hands  across  his  knees. 
There  is  a  slight  convulsive  movement  and  then  lie 
is  quiet  again.  Red  stirs,  and  raising  himself  on 
an  elbow,  looks  across  at  him.] 

RED  [quizzically']  Asleep,  Kid? 

KID  [hardly  moving,  and  speaking  in  a  muffled, 
husky  voice]  Xo. 

RED  [In  the  same  half-bantering  tone]  Guess 
you  didn't  find  it. 

KID.     You  know  I  didn't  find  it. 

RED.  Maybe  you  didn't  look  long  enough. 
"  Seek  and  Find."' 

KID  [Raising  his  head  angrily]  I  did  look  for 
it,  every  step  of  the  way  there  and  back,  but  it's 
lost  for  good. 

RED  [still  banteringly]  Sure  you  didn't  find  it 
there,  Kid,  'cause  —  it  was  here.  [He  pulls  from 
pocket  and  tosses  the  money  across  to  him.] 
Take  your  thirty  dollars. 

KID  [seizing  the  money  and  counting  it.]  Why 
it  is  my  money!  [Rises]  Red!  Red!  where  did 
you  find  it?  Tomorrow  I  start  to  go  back. 

RED  [snarling]  You'll  start  tonight  —  now. 

KID.     Why,  ain't  you  comin',  too? 

[  91  ] 


THE    OTHER    ONE 

RED  [In  the  same  tone]  I  am  not!  [He  lies 
down  again,  feigning  sleep.] 

KID.  But  the  Springfield  job  you  wanted  me 
for?  How  about  it? 

RED  [raising  himself  on  one  elbow]  The 
Springfield  job's  off,  see?  Think  I'm  goin'  to 
trust  to  a  dope  who  can't  hold  onto  his  own  wad? 

KID  [uncertainly]  I'd  like  to  go  now,  Red,  but 
I  don't  like  leavin'  you  this  way. 

RED.  Oh,  you  get  the  hell  out  of  here.  I'm 
sick  of  youse  kids. 

[He  lies  down  again.  The  Kid  looks  at  him  a 
moment  hesitatingly  but  seeing  no  movement,  he 
throws  back  his  head  as  if  catching  a  deep  breath 
of  relief,  and  goes,  leaving  Red  huddled,  ap 
parently  asleep  by  the  fire.  When  the  Kid  has 
really  gone,  Red  rises  suddenly  on  his  elbow  and 
looks  to  make  sure.  He  turns,  sitting  on  his 
haunches,  and  smiles  a  mocking  smile,  nodding 
deprecatingly.]  Me!  The  Ramblin' Red!  Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  that?  [He  gives  up  the 
question  as  apparently  impossible  to  answer,  and 
reaching  for  The  Other  One's  candle  beside  him, 
makes  as  though  to  blow  it  out,  when  he  hesitates. 
Then  he  puts  it  down  carefully,  still  lighted,  and 
lies  down  again,  facing  the  candle,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  his  deep  breathing  proclaims  he  has  fallen 
asleep.  The  stage  is  quite  dark  now,  except  for 
the  Stranger's  candle,  which  burns  steadily  be 
side  his  huddled,  unconscious  figure.] 

CURTAIN 

[  92  ] 


STA* 


14  DAY  USE 

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LOAN  DEPT. 

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on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


llJan'oOr"  KZ 


JUMlltMO 


LD  21A-50m-4,'59 
(A1724slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


57072S 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


